The Lesser of Two Malfoys
by SerenaSnape88
Summary: Hermione's 22nd birthday is weeks away, and she must be willingly engaged to a pureblood by then or be forced to accept the first eligible pureblood who requests her. Marriage Law. Mostly canon. M for future sexual content. Ron is a noob.
1. A Conversation

Heart pounding and breaths coming fast, Hermione Granger ducked behind a bookcase and peered cautiously around the corner. Seeing her pursuer, she quickly retreated in the opposite direction, weaving her way through her fellow patrons of Flourish and Blott's. At that moment, she did not care that her darting behind bookshelves and running as low to the ground as she could manage was earning her several puzzled glances and even a few stares. At that moment, all she cared about was making it to the front door without being seen by Draco Malfoy.

She did her best to make her way to the front of the shop while simultaneously avoiding the areas near where she had last spotted him. She made use of bookshelves, tall table displays, and a gaggle of housewives hovering around Rita Skeeter's newest biography, all imperfect disguises, but the best she could do. At last, she found herself crouching behind the display nearest the door. Looking underneath the table for the telltale shine of his appallingly expensive shoes, Hermione recognized his feet and peeked around the side of the display. His profile was to her, and he appeared to be asking after her to a stranger who, with a look of annoyance, pointed to the back of the store. Draco's eyes followed the stranger's hand, and Hermione bolted out the door while he wasn't looking.

Immediately after her first breath of fresh air, she collided with a passerby. "Oh, sorry—" she began, not intending to stop for a proper apology, and then she looked up and recognized into whom she had most indelicately crashed.

"Well, well, well," Lucius Malfoy purred, "what have we here?"

Under normal circumstances, Hermione was perfectly capable of appreciating and even enjoying irony. She was not, however, under those circumstances at present. She closed her eyes briefly, letting escape a frustrated sigh, and said, "Please, Mister Malfoy, _not now._"

"Ah, ah, ah," he tutted, gently but effectively blocking her escape by placing his arm in her way. "Come now, Miss Granger, where are your manners?"

"I must have dropped them when I was fighting for my virtue," she answered testily as she adjusted her blouse, which was hanging crookedly on her shoulders, and tossed a strand of hair out of her face. Her eyes were bright with irritation at having her escape delayed, and at the all-too-recent memory of being accosted in the bookstore.

"Ah," he replied, a charming yet patronizing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "An avid admirer? Tell me, Miss Granger, whose attentions are you so desperately fleeing?"

"Your son's, as a matter of fact," Hermione answered, completely out of patience. "He clearly didn't hear the word 'no' enough as a child, something for which I likely have _you_ to thank!"

"Yes," Lucius said, nodding gravely. "The stubbornness he comes by naturally, but he is undeniably incorrigible, and I regret that it is very much my fault."

"Somehow I doubt your sincerity," was Hermione's retort, and she leveled him a scathing look. "Now, if you please, I must be going. He'll be coming out that door any moment—"

And, as though summoned by their discussion of him, Draco stepped onto the pavement.

"_Shit!_" Hermione whispered, darting behind the nearest available object large enough to conceal her, which happened to be Lucius, and grabbed fistfuls of his cape. "_Please,_" she breathed, not above begging, "_hide me!_"

There was a pause, and Lucius drawled his son's name. "Draco."

Hermione gasped silently and tightened her grip on his robes.

"Father," Draco replied, sounding somewhat surprised to see him.

Hermione held her breath, certain that she was about to be revealed.

"What brings you here?" Lucius asked.

"I'm meeting Blaise," Draco easily lied, "but I was a bit early. Just killing time."

"Killing time," his father slowly repeated, the condescension in his voice too evident to be overlooked by even the simplest mind. "It has always bemused me, Draco, how easily idleness comes to you. Do find some useful employment when Mister Zabini joins you, hmm?"

And then he Disapparated, and as Hermione was clutching onto his robes for dear life, so did she.

* * *

><p>When Hermione met solid ground again, gasping and clutching her side, she had no attention to spare for her surroundings, and it did not occur to her to inquire after them. "Does that <em>ever<em> get easier?" she managed to wheeze.

"You grow accustomed to it," Lucius replied. "But it never becomes pleasant." He began to walk at a leisurely pace down the lane onto which they had Apparated, and although he found it curious, he did not question it when she fell into step beside him.

Many minutes were spent in slightly uncomfortable silence, and Hermione had not the foresight to see that what she said next would serve only to heighten the awkwardness of the situation. "I was sorry to hear about your divorce."

Lucius took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and exhaled slowly through his nose. Narcissa had left him nearly a year ago, but the divorce was only one month old. It had been, at first, rather tricky to accomplish, but then the Preservation of Magic Act had been passed, and one of its clauses stipulated that purebloods marry outside their group, and vice-versa, to ensure that the Wizarding race would continue to grow. Narcissa could no longer bear children, but the Ministry was almost too keen to reintroduce Lucius into the pool of eligible pureblood bachelors. "Yes," he began. "That alone might have been bearable, but the Ministry has since been urging me to select another wife."

"That's funny," Hermione replied in a tone that suggested she found not one single thing humorous about her situation, "the Ministry has apparently been urging all the purebloods to select _me._"

This piqued Lucius' interest, and he turned his head to look at her with one eyebrow raised. "You have suitors apart from my son?"

"I do," she affirmed, slightly affronted by the surprise in his voice. "Several. Draco is without a doubt the most persistent, but Ronald Weasley is not far behind."

"Ah, young Mister Weasley," Lucius said, smiling in amusement. "I'm sure his courtship is most refined." His sarcasm was subtle, but detectable.

"Mostly it consists of him turning up uninvited, being socially awkward, and looking confused when I remind him – _repeatedly_ – that I am not his girlfriend."

Lucius laughed quietly to himself, and Hermione was surprised to find it a pleasant sound.

She looked up from her reverie to discover that they had approached Malfoy Manor, and she ceased walking with a startled "Oh!" Then, at the question in his eyes, she said, "I hadn't realized where we were."

"I would have informed you, but you didn't ask."

Hermione was silent.

"I trust that you can Apparate on your own?"

She shot her gaze to him and frowned, more than a little miffed that he willfully underestimated her abilities. "Of course I can."

He chose to ignore the fact that he had offended her, but granted her a shallow bow. "Then I will bid you good day."

With her brow still slightly furrowed, she nodded in return and said, "Thank you for... um... well, for hiding me from Draco." She chuckled a little awkwardly.

He barely tipped his chin in acknowledgement, turned on his heel, and continued on to his house.


	2. Coffee With Harry

A few days later, Hermione was having coffee with Harry outside a Muggle café less than a block from the Hog's Head. It had grown uncharacteristically warm throughout the day, so Hermione had discarded her cardigan and draped it across the back of her chair, inviting what was sure to become an unattractive tan line in the shape of her tank top across her shoulders.

Harry did not even attempt to hide his amusement as Hermione related how doggedly Draco had pursued her and how frantically she had dodged him throughout the bookstore.

"It's not funny!" she protested, but even as she said so, she returned his laughter. "That boy has made himself so much more than a nuisance." She sipped her coffee.

"Boy?" Harry repeated. "We're four years out of school; surely he should be called a man."

Hermione's mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. "It is not a matter of age, but of temperament. And trust me," she said, setting her cup back onto its saucer as the lazy breeze cooled the back of her neck, "Draco Malfoy is very much a boy. As is Ron, for your information, though not in quite so obnoxious a manner. Have you spoken to him yet?"

Harry sighed in a way that communicated mental exhaustion and replied, "Yes, I have. Several times. I don't know what to tell you. He keeps using the fact that you dated him once as evidence that you'll do it again."

"When in fact," she retorted, "it is the very reason I _won't_ do it again." After a moment, she pressed, "You're sure you can't convince him to back off?"

"Afraid not," he said. "Not unless you let me tell him what you said last week—"

"Absolutely not!" Hermione cut in.

"Oh, come on," Harry said, smiling mischievously. "It'd be rather fun to see the look on his face when I tell him you called him a thick-skulled, wall-eyed—"

"Harry—"

"—barrel-chested tosser!"

"Harry!" Hermione admonished, though she was fighting off the giggles and blushing furiously. "That's enough. I told you not to repeat that, and I meant it."

"Alright, alright," he conceded. "So, how did you manage to escape the Great Ferret?"

"It's funny you should mention it," she said. "When I finally got out of the store, who should I run into but the Great Ferret's father?"

Harry frowned. "Lucius Malfoy?"

Hermione nodded. "The very same. And I do mean _run into_; I practically knocked him over in all my grace," she related sarcastically. "Luckily, he's a rather sturdy fellow."

"What did he say?" Harry asked.

"He detained me for a moment – for his own amusement, I suspect. He asked me who I was running from, and I said, 'Your son, as a matter of fact,' and then Draco came outside, and I sort of ducked behind Mister Malfoy and asked him to hide me, and, well... he did."

Harry's brow furrowed deeper. "He did?"

Hermione nodded, returning his look of confusion. "He did."

There was a short pause before Harry asked, "And then what happened?"

"They had a brief exchange, Draco and Lucius, and then he Disapparated and – since I was holding on rather tightly to the back of his robes – so did I. We ended up on the lane that leads to Malfoy Manor, but I didn't realize that at the time, and we walked, and talked, and..."

Harry waited, but she did not continue. "And...?" he eventually prodded.

Hermione shrugged. "...and he wasn't a total bastard."

Now Harry's eyebrows went up in genuine surprise.

Hermione nodded. "I know. Anyway, we reached his house, and he went inside and I went home." She affixed Harry with a mind-numbed stare. "And Ronald was there."

"Oh, dear," Harry offered, leaning back in his seat.

"Oh, dear, indeed. I made short work of it, just told him I was tired and shut the door on him. Anyway, enough about me – how is Ginny?"

"Oh, she's great," Harry replied with a grin, all too eager to talk about his wife. "She's passed the morning sickness, finally, and the doctor says her weight is right on track. Hardly any mood swings, thank God, and the ones she has are mild. But she eats everything in front of her and then some. We're going to the grocery twice a week at least. God knows where she puts all of it!"

"Do you know yet if it's a boy or a girl?" Hermione asked, dimpling with ill-contained excitement.

Harry beamed in return. "A boy. James Arthur."

"Oh, Harry, that's wonderful!" Hermione exclaimed. "Congratulations!"

"Thanks," he replied, still smiling so broadly that he was showing practically all his teeth. "I hope he looks just like her."

Hermione sighed, looking on her friend with not a little envy. "You're so lucky you fell in love with a pureblood, Harry." She wiped a hand over her face and cradled her forehead in her hand, propping it up with her elbow on the table. "You have no idea how convenient that is."

Harry blinked slowly, cocking his head to the side. "Things will work out for the best, if you let them," he said. "Just try to have an open mind."

Hermione thanked him for the advice and acted as though she would take it, but inside, she was not the least bit fooled by his false optimism. He knew as well as she did that her future would likely not include the kind of happiness he had been so fortunate to find.

They hugged goodbye and Harry turned on his heel, disappearing with a loud pop. Hermione began walking down the street towards the Hog's Head, intending to do some shopping in Diagon Alley, and had made it almost halfway there when she saw – who else? – Draco Malfoy rounding the corner in her direction. Startled, she stopped in her tracks, and a moment later saw recognition on his face. It all happened in an instant: he started towards her more purposefully, she instinctively Disapparated, and she ended up in the first place that had crossed her mind.


	3. The Same Lucius Malfoy

When Hermione opened her eyes, still tense from the surprise of seeing Draco, she dropped her shoulders, cocked her head, and stared at the house before her, utterly befuddled.

She was standing outside the gardens of Malfoy Manor.

Intent on getting out of there before she was seen, Hermione concentrated on her apartment as she began to turn on her heel, but mid-turn she caught sight of a tall, blond figure and was so startled that she stumbled gracelessly and remained exactly where she was.

"Good afternoon, Miss Granger," Lucius Malfoy calmly greeted her, betraying none of his surprise.

"Mister Malfoy," she breathed in reply, her heart still thumping in a combination of adrenaline from her flight and the shock of finding herself on Malfoy property.

There was a long pause before he said, "May I inquire as to what you're doing in my garden?"

He did not ask it rudely, but as always there was a pompous air about him, and it irritated Hermione. "I didn't Apparate onto your lawn on purpose," she tersely informed him. "It was an unconscious decision. I crossed paths with _your son_ and I needed to leave in a hurry; and since I had the name Malfoy on the brain, it is no great mystery that I ended up here."

Lucius merely continued staring expressionlessly at her.

Sighing, Hermione said, "Look, I apologize for trespassing. I'll be going now."

"Since you're here," Lucius interjected before she could disappear, "why not take a turn about the garden? It will give you some time to recuperate."

Hermione was assaulted by a variety of sensations; confusion at his gallantry, fear of Draco's imminent appearance, and a sharp stitch in her side were among the most pressing. "Won't Draco be coming home soon?" she asked.

Lucius shook his head. "Draco does not live here anymore. He has a flat in London." He eyed the hand she was pressing to her ribcage, took a step towards her, and said, "You really ought to take a walk. It helps."

Grimacing slightly at the pang in her side, Hermione asked, "Is that why you Apparate half a mile from your house?"

"As a matter of fact, it is." He waited a moment, then pressed, "Come, I was just about to walk the garden myself."

She was still very wary of this man, having seen ample evidence of his maliciousness over the past ten years, but her abdominal muscles were screeching their protest to further abuse. It also occurred to her that, with his wife having left him and his son having moved out, Lucius was probably lonely in that enormous house all by himself. There was a barely detectable light of hope in his eyes as he extended his invitation to her; perhaps he was a little grateful for her company, however unexpectedly it had arrived. That decided her. "Alright," she conceded, and they began to walk.

They strolled alongside hedges, trees, and bushes, each decorated with flowers – some Hermione recognized, like roses, but most of them exotic blooms she had never seen before. They did not vary overmuch in color (white, violet, and blue were the only shades she saw) but were somehow more beautiful for that.

Eventually, Lucius ventured to ask: "How long has Draco been pursuing you?"

Hermione answered with an exasperated sigh. "Ever since that ridiculous marriage law was passed. First I was a leper, and then I was Helen of Troy. Literally, from one day to the next. It's almost as though he was waiting for the excuse."

"I beg your pardon," Lucius began, "but who is Helen of Troy?"

"Oh," Hermione said, having once again forgotten that magic and non-magic culture rarely, if ever, cross paths. "She's a royal in ancient Greek mythology. It is said that she had the face that launched a thousand ships—that is, she was so beautiful that she started a war."

"Indeed?" Lucius sounded genuinely intrigued. "Who fought in this war?"

Hermione was suspicious, because Lucius Malfoy was the very last wizard she would have expected to be interested in Muggle history. However, she was Hermione Granger, and if someone asked her a scholarly question, by God, she would answer it. "Her husband, the king of Sparta, led his army against the army of her lover, a prince of Troy."

"And I suppose love conquered all, did it not?" he asked in gentle mocking.

"Actually, almost everybody died and she returned to Sparta with her husband."

And with that abrupt end to an otherwise romantic story, they each fell into silence for a time. Eventually, feeling that idle chat was perhaps a safer course of conversation, he inquired after how she had spent her afternoon.

Hermione felt somewhat awkward at the thought of discussing his former master's mortal enemy with him, but she ignored her nervousness and boldly replied, "I was having coffee with Harry."

Lucius nodded, as though news of the Boy Who Lived was no news at all. "And how is Mister Potter?" he politely inquired.

Hermione eyed him guardedly, but answered. "Very well. He's married to Ginny Weasley." Another awkward person to mention around him, much less directly to him, and another name to which he refused to react. "They're expecting a son in December."

Lucius appeared to ponder that for a while; then he nodded and said, rather softly, "Good."

Hermione furrowed her brow. "Good?" she repeated dumbly, studying his face for some clue to his motivations.

He merely nodded. "Yes."

"You mean you're glad to hear of it?"

He returned her gaze without much expression, unintentionally making it impossible for her to read him and thus frustrating her even more. "Yes."

No more enlightened and rapidly approaching the end of her patience, she blurted out, "Why?"

Lucius treated her to an especially lopsided smirk and countered with, "Is gladness not an appropriate reaction to the news? Indeed, I thought it was customary."

Hermione exhaled shortly, a figurative hairsbreadth from full-blown exasperation, and said, "You know what I'm asking."

Lucius' eyes communicated that he did. He nodded in acknowledgement of that fact, sighed so deeply that his shoulders visibly rose and fell, and said, "I was almost responsible for bringing about their deaths. Hers, just the once; his, on numerous occasions. And all for the sake of a cause which amounted to genocide. I am glad that he will be a father because perhaps that joy can begin to make up for the grief which I aided so considerably in visiting upon them both."

Hermione stopped in her tracks, and in so doing caught Lucius by surprise to such a degree that he froze, as well. "You _are_ Lucius Malfoy, aren't you?" she asked, her voice marked not only by open confusion, but also by poorly-masked irritation at his failure to behave as she expected. "The same Lucius Malfoy who put Tom Riddle's diary in Ginny's hands? The one who taught Draco to call me 'Mudblood'? Lord Voldemort's favorite Death Eater?"

His expression remained aloof, and his answer was deadpan. "I was hardly his favorite," he pointlessly informed her. "I was third at best, behind Severus or Bellatrix, depending on the day—"

She put her hands on her hips and affixed him with an authoritative stare; it might have been humorous coming from one so young, but in fact Lucius had never seen its equal. "Stop deflecting," she gently but firmly demanded, in true matronly fashion.

Lucius was unsure how to respond, and so he only looked at her for a long time. She didn't abandon their staring match, apologize for her outburst, or indeed give any indication that she would be satisfied without an answer. He took a breath and held it for a moment before answering. "Would you like the short version, or the long?"

Hermione thought for a moment. "Long."

Lucius nodded, and continued on their stroll, confident that she would follow. "Lord Voldemort," he softly began, still unaccustomed to using the name, "was a predator. Predators have a special talent for sensing weaknesses, and for using those weaknesses to their advantage." There was a brief hesitation during which he tried to decide how best to phrase what he meant to say, and Hermione didn't press him. "Sympathizers with his cause shared not only a belief in their own superiority, but a severe lack of exposure to differing viewpoints. That's how the seed of prejudice germinates, you see; one only associates with others like oneself."

Hermione nodded. "I know."

"Well," he continued, "the most radical of all his sympathizers became the first Death Eaters. I was among them." His tone was tinged rather heavily with regret. "And I can tell you with utter certainty that the one thing which united us all was a lack of identity. We had all been taught by our parents, and theirs before them, that our blood status was the only thing which set us apart and made us unique."

Hermione's smirk was tinged with resentment. "Pureblood first and human being second?"

Lucius nodded. "Yes," he answered with a simple, matter-of-fact tone. "Without our status, we each of us hadn't even the faintest idea who we were. People had steadily cared less and less about their heritage – and ours, consequently – with each passing generation. Deeply ingrained in us was the fear of blood status becoming obsolete, and by extension becoming insignificant ourselves. The Dark Lord spoke so eloquently, so passionately, about the nobility of our bloodlines. And he assured us that, were he to succeed, blood status would be more important in our world than it had ever been before. He promised us identity, distinction, honor, power. Such a gifted orator," Lucius said, his voice laden with bitterness. "He had us all salivating."

Hermione listened, understood, and found herself unable to argue.

"It wasn't until later – much, much too late – that I realized how very wrong I was; how wrong we all were." Lucius found it excruciating to remember, but in telling of it he found some sort of relief, and so he continued. "When he planned to send my son to slaughter as punishment for my failures, I understood that, while his entire ethos was borne of prejudice, his cruelty was indiscriminate. After that, it was but a short leap to the realization that he was inhuman. I began to question every word that fell from his lips. Eventually, I saw everything clearly."

They walked in an intense yet oddly comfortable silence for a time, each deep in their own thoughts. When they had completed their journey around the garden and found themselves once again at its entrance, Hermione spoke. "Just out of curiosity, what was the short version?"

They approached the obnoxiously tall doors of Malfoy Manor, and Lucius paused to answer her. "The short version is: No, I am not the same." He bowed, once again leaving her with an incomplete and perfunctory goodbye.


	4. Girl Toy

**Author's note: Again, I am blown away by all the positive feedback. I am so glad you find Lucius' "ideological evolution" credible (nice phrasing, Stella Cosmopolita!), because if you didn't buy that, there's no way you would buy what will happen later. Get ready for Hermione to have a really bad day… and remember, I warned you in the summary: Ron is a noob. :) –Serena-  
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* * *

><p>Hermione stayed in her apartment for days, having reached the conclusion that venturing outside simply wasn't safe for her at the present. Being the heir to the Malfoy fortune meant that Draco had no need of gainful employment and was therefore free to stalk Wizarding London as much as he pleased – which, unfortunately for Hermione, was all the livelong day. Her sole comfort in his single-minded pursuit of her was that he did not have her address.<p>

Ronald Weasley, however, did. And he made free use of it once, sometimes twice, a day.

Hermione actively resented that her only alternative to answering the door when he came calling (which she adamantly _refused_ to do) was to hit the floor at the sound of his knock. That she had been forced into the role of prisoner in her own home simply for the hope of avoiding her stubborn suitors infuriated her.

She sat on her sofa, leaning back against its arm, as she read a book to distract herself from her rapidly growing case of cabin fever. She looked up at the clock and grimaced to herself as she realized that Ron was due sometime in the next half hour or so. His visits, though undesired, were at least predictable; he could always be counted on to show up sometime between three and four in the afternoon. Just as she finished the thought, his distinctive knock sounded. It was easily recognizable because he was the only person she knew who actually used the brass knocker, being somewhat fascinated and amused by its novelty. She rolled her eyes and sank deeper into the sofa and out of sight; it was not unlike him to peer through the window if she didn't answer, as she had learned the hard way a few months before.

He knocked a second time, and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm herself. _Just go away,_ she silently pleaded. _My nerves are stretched thin enough as it is._ And it was true; if she spent much longer cooped up in her flat, she thought she might go mad. _Just go away._

"Hermione," he called through her door.

She let out a small groan and, exasperated, whacked herself on the forehead with her book.

"I heard that!"

She sat up and strode to her door, turning over the lock and throwing it wide open. "Yes?" she asked, though her tone was anything but polite.

"Where have you been?" Ron asked, his voice tinged with concern. "I've been coming round every day for a week."

_More like for the past six months,_ she silently argued. It took everything Hermione had not to scream it at him. She pressed her lips together in a tight line until she had enough control over herself to refrain from doing so. "_I know,_" she answered instead, slowly and evenly.

He drew his brows together until two distinguishable lines appeared between them. "Why didn't you answer the door?" he questioned in open confusion.

Hermione's patience was hanging on by a single thread, stretched perilously thin and frayed from end to end, _thisclose_ to snapping. She took a deep breath, aware that her nostrils probably flared as she did so, and replied, "I am not _obligated_ to answer the door every time someone knocks; it is my prerogative." By the end of that single sentence, her voice had lost a noticeable measure of calm. She inhaled again, waited until she had regained it, and continued. "I am not receiving visitors at present."

Ron looked more than slightly affronted at that. "Why not?" he asked, as though he had every right to know.

_Snap._ Hermione drew just enough breath to bellow, "_I don't feel like it!_" and slammed the door in his face.

She threw home the lock, the deadbolt, _and_ the chain before smacking the door with her palm and huffing angrily. She paced back and forth for exactly four seconds before he knocked again. Livid, she undid all the locks with trembling hands and pulled the door open again. "_What?_"

He answered by grabbing her by the waist, propelling her against the door until it hit the wall with a violent bang, and kissing her.

She squeaked in protest, pressed her hands against his chest, pushing with all her might, and twisted her mouth away from his.

He wrapped one arm around her waist and brought his other hand to the side of her face, pulling it back to kiss her again.

Hermione continued to push, but he was much too strong. She gained only inches of distance from her efforts, and he bounced right back when she adjusted the placement of her hands in an attempt to find better leverage – an attempt that was equally unsuccessful. A bizarrely traitorous part of her mind noted that the chest she pushed against was very well formed, as were the shoulders above it. And really, if she stopped fighting, Ron would have been a very good kisser. Much better than when they had dated four years ago.

Still, she had not consented to this, and that was the bottom line. She chose another tactic. First inching her foot around until she found his, she then lifted it and brought her heel down on the toe of his shoe with all the force she could muster. When he was distracted by the pain, she shoved him again. This time he stumbled away from her. She then grabbed him by his shirt collar, foisted him out the door, and closed it, making good use of all its barricades.

She stormed into her bedroom, put on shoes and socks, and pulled her hair into a hasty ponytail, grumbling to herself all the way. "Can't _believe_...stupid, _stupid_ man!...the nerve…." Then, remembering her conversation with Harry, she ended it with: "Thick-skulled, wall-eyed, barrel-chested _tosser!_"

Tucking her wand into her jeans, she grabbed her keys and Apparated outside the Leaky Cauldron. She _needed_ to get out of her apartment, to see something other than her own walls and to escape the scene of the incident. She strode into the bar and straight out the back door, not bothering to say hello to anyone or, indeed, even to look around to see if there was anyone worth greeting. She pulled out her wand, tapped the brick, and walked through the archway that appeared.

The other patrons of Diagon Alley gave her a wide berth, seeming to sense her foul mood. She walked down the street, the length of her stride matching the height of her ire, and she looked from side to side as she went, trying to decide where she wanted to stop. Her eyes landed on Madam Malkin's, and she made for the shop with all the determination of a general headed for battle.

Madam Malkin appeared at the sound of her shop door opening. "Welcome!" she greeted Hermione warmly. "What may I do for you, my dear?"

"I need you to sew a nine-inch pocket into the front of my blue jeans," she responded abruptly as she pulled out her wand. "I am _tired_ of carrying this thing around in the back of them!"

Madam Malkin's eyebrows were almost at her hairline as she watched sparks fly out of the tip of Hermione's wand.

"So _that's_ what's been up your bum, Granger."

Hermione closed her eyes, entirely unable to believe her bad luck. "No, no, no, _no!_" she whined, planting her face in her hands.

"Madam Malkin," Draco said, self-importance and authority dripping smoothly from his lips, "have you finished mending my robes?" He gave her a pointed look.

Understanding him perfectly, she bobbed a quick curtsy and returned to the back of the shop, giving her most valued customer the privacy he so clearly desired.

Hermione didn't turn to face him, which was a grave mistake. "Draco Malfoy, you do not want to cross me today, I swear—"

And suddenly her wand was slipped neatly from her hand. She spun around, her mouth agape, to meet with the sight of Draco holding it, a complacent smile on his face.

She clenched her jaw so tightly it hurt. "Give me back my wand." It was an icy command, but her eyes were ablaze.

He smirked and began walking slowly towards her. "I'll give you your wand," he said, and now he was close enough to stroke her cheek. "But you have to give me something first."

Disgusted, Hermione withdrew her face from his reach. She didn't need to ask what he had in mind, and she wished she didn't know. "I'm not about to trade you _anything_ for something that is rightfully mine," she said. "Give it back."

"Mm-mm," he sang into her ear. His breath was warm and unwelcome on her neck.

Hermione was so far beyond tired of being treated like a girl-toy. All the same, she knew that actively fighting him was not the wisest course, because he could be counted upon to use magic when met with resistance. She had learned _that_ the hard way, too. So she remained perfectly still, waiting for an opportune moment – for Madam Malkin to reappear, for another customer to walk in the door, for Draco to unwittingly bring her wand close enough for her to grab it.

None of these things happened. He reached for the top button of her blouse.

"Draco," she said, summoning all her self-control so she wouldn't reach for his hand.

He deftly slipped her button from its hole and kissed her jaw, just below her ear. He reached for the next one.

"Draco," she said again, with a little more force.

He undid that one as well, reached his hand into her shirt, and nipped her earlobe with his teeth.

"_Draco._"

"Why do you deny me, Granger?" he murmured, his fingertips trespassing most unforgivably. "It's not as though you have more appealing offers."

She drove her knee into his groin. In no more than three seconds, he grunted and removed his hand from her, she pulled his wand from his grip, and she Disapparated.

This time, her destination was entirely intentional.


	5. Tea and Brandy

When she appeared outside the gardens of Malfoy Manor, Lucius was once again in plain sight, and the one lonely ounce of her that wasn't occupied with being livid at the male race felt a certain fondness for this particular male's tendency to always be conveniently available.

He quickly took in her harried appearance – mussed hair and half-open blouse – before settling on her face. "Miss Granger," he began, his voice as always calm and smooth but his tone affected by surprise at the pure, naked rage in her eyes. "Whatever is the matter?"

"Roaming hands!" she shouted, her own hands gesturing wildly in her exasperated fury. "Wayward tongues!" Her fists were now clenched at her sides and she visibly shook. Finally, the summation of her problems exploded from her lips. "_Misplaced sense of ownership!_" Her wand sparked again.

Lucius' lips pursed into a thoughtful expression as he observed her outrage. "I take it you've had another run-in with my son."

"Your son," she affirmed, shoving her wand back into its place. "Ron Weasley," she continued, buttoning up her shirt. "You're the only man I've seen today who hasn't tried to molest me!" She pulled the elastic band out of her hair and began to fix her ponytail, but she stopped, her hair falling around her face, and met his eyes as she took a step back. "Please don't take that as a challenge."

Lucius chuckled. "I'd like to think I have a bit more self-control than the average twenty-one-year-old male."

Hermione relaxed, returning to the task of pulling her hair out of her face. "Randy, entitled, pubescent twits," she muttered as she did so.

Lucius nodded his approval. "A fitting portrayal."

Having succeeded in binding her untamable locks, Hermione allowed her hands to fall to her sides. "Might we walk the garden again?"

"I was just about to go inside for tea." He turned his body slightly to the side, his shoulder pointing in the direction of the house, but he kept his eyes on her. "Would you care to join me?"

"Can we put brandy in the tea?" Hermione asked. Her voice and her expression communicated an obvious need for a drink.

Again, he laughed. "No, but after tea we can have a glass of brandy."

Teatime at the Malfoy residence consisted of strongly brewed black tea and warm rolls, accompanied by a tray filled with butter, honey, and a row of flavored jams. Lucius was ever the gracious host, even going so far as to dismiss the house elf and serve Hermione himself when he noticed her displeasure at his servant's presence.

"One lump or two?" he asked, hand hovering over the sugar bowl.

"None, thank you," she replied. When he set her tea before her, she spooned some honey into her cup instead.

Smiling in silent amusement at her idiosyncrasy, he placed a roll on her plate and gestured to the tray. "What would you like on your bread?"

"I can do that myself," Hermione said, giggling at the absurdity of the idea of Lucius Malfoy buttering her bread.

"Very well," he said with a smirk, and handed over the plate. "Raspberry," he said, pointing at the first jar on the tray, "blackberry, blueberry, strawberry, and orange."

She waited politely until he finished, though she had made her decision the moment he said "blackberry." Occupied as they were with breaking their afternoon fast, conversation was polite but minimal. It wasn't until Lucius called for brandy that the discussion truly began.

"How are things with the Ministry?" Hermione asked as he poured them each a glass. "Have they let up at all, or are they still urging you to marry?"

Lucius quietly groaned through closed lips as he corked the bottle and set it down. "They want me to throw a party," he answered, handing her a glass, "for unmatched witches and wizards of a certain age." He reclaimed his seat and took a generous sip.

"In the Muggle world, that's called a 'singles group,' and it's viewed as being rather pathetic."

He nodded in agreement. "That's how I view it, as well."

Hermione leaned back in her chair. "Are you going to do it?"

"I haven't decided. I'm still weighing the drawbacks of hosting a 'Pathetic Party' against those of irritating the Ministry."

"Well," Hermione said, smiling prematurely at her own jest, "if you throw it before my birthday, you can invite me to the 'Pathetic Party,' and all the other guests can stand around being pathetic while you and I sneak away to drink brandy and laugh at them."

"But you don't fit into the age group," he contested.

"I'm in no less danger for that!" Hermione returned, her consonants running together a pinch.

Lucius chuckled. "You _really_ can't hold your liquor very well, can you?"

She met his eyes with a defiant expression, though she smirked and her own eyes were a trifle glazed. "I'm fine," she calmly insisted.

"I should have offered the '92," he gently teased, "instead of wasting a glass of the '79 on a cheap date."

Hermione didn't respond, only continued smiling and took another sip.

Lucius watched her for a long moment. "Perhaps I ought to throw a party after all," he began. "It appears, I regret to say, that you could only stand to benefit from it. Have your marriage prospects improved at all?"

"No," she replied. "They're as dismal as ever. Your son appears not to understand the word 'no," while Ron simply doesn't believe me when I say it. His brother George proposed to me once as a joke at a family dinner; he was already married to Angelina by that time, so his falling to his knees in front of the entire family and bawling at the top of his lungs that he would die without me was tremendously funny. Neville Longbottom asked me once, but marrying him would have felt like incest. Now he's engaged to Hannah Abbott. The rest of my possible fiancés are old friends of Draco's, like Gregory Goyle and Blaise Zabini. Goyle has never even attempted conversation with me, though I suspect I'm not missing much. And I don't like the way Blaise looks at me. It's like the way Draco looks at me, only more guarded."

He listened, as always taking the time to reflect on what she said to him before responding. "Is there not a single pureblood you would consider to be a suitable match for you?" he asked.

She shrugged. "How would I know if there was? No one of your persuasion would condescend to speak to me in school, no doubt coached by their parents." Here she raised an eyebrow and gave him a loaded stare. "Meaning you and your friends." She relaxed again. "So I have no idea who among your kind is remotely tolerable."

Lucius did not answer that for a long moment, instead taking the time to fully absorb her words. Finally, he said, "You make a valid point."

"The worst part of this whole sordid affair," she continued, "is that my twenty-second birthday is only a month away."

The whole law was on the barbaric side, but what she referred to was, as she said, the worst part. Once a witch or wizard of less than pureblood status reached the age of twenty-two, if they were not engaged or married to one already, they were obligated to marry the first pureblood who put in a formal request for them with the Ministry.

She expressed her sentiments on that score by scoffing audibly. "It's contemptible," she began, her voice hardening. "To think that I will be forced to marry the first person who asks for me. I have virtually no say in the matter. It's positively medieval. It nauseates me to even think of it." She took a generous swallow of her brandy.

It was a moment before Lucius replied, "Only if you haven't found a pureblood you can tolerate before then."

"In the next thirty days?" she returned wryly. "I'm not in the habit of asking for miracles."

Lucius merely nodded, abandoning that line of conversation. "Who do you suppose will make it to the Ministry first?" he asked instead.

Hermione sighed. "Your son is without a doubt the most determined, which I'm sure won't surprise you. In fact, he'll probably show up to the Ministry early. I don't think his friends will request me at all, because they won't want to challenge him; and I don't think it's even occurred to Ronald that he has competition. So, honestly, I think it will be Draco." She spoke the name with mild distaste, and she began to frown.

Neither of these things escaped Lucius' notice. "Will it really be so terrible to be married to my son?" he gently prodded.

At this, she met his gaze. "You raised him," she pointed out. "What do you think?"

It was a rhetorical question, and he recognized it as such and so did not answer. Instead, he allowed himself to sink into his thoughts. He had been incredibly neglectful as a parent in spoiling his only child. Miss Granger was quite right when she guessed that Draco was unfamiliar with the word "no," and in laying the blame on Lucius. He had taught his son that their heritage made them superior in every way to the rest of the magical world, and that Draco deserved the best because he _was_ the best. He had allowed his son to grow up thinking that he should and would always get what he wanted, due simply to his own alleged superiority and not because he had earned it. Lucius had done a great disservice not only to his son, but to society has a whole, because he had created a monster and then unleashed it upon an unsuspecting public. "I think," he began, sighing regretfully, "Miss Granger, that Mister Weasley may, in fact, be the lesser of two evils."


	6. An Invitation

**Author's note: You guys have been INCREDIBLE. All your wonderful advice and suggestions really helped me a lot. I remembered something I had touched on earlier and thought it might be interesting to explore that idea more deeply. It should be fun. :D I hope you enjoy it! –Serena-**

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><p>It was now a week until Hermione's birthday, and the time that had passed had been much less stressful, but rather dull. Ron had stopped by a few days after she had nearly broken his toes to apologize for upsetting her – but stubbornly refused to regret actually kissing her – and now only visited twice a week. Occasionally she let him in, more out of respect for their past friendship than any desire to allow him to court her, and they would pass an hour or so in relatively easy companionship before she suggested that it was getting late and he would reluctantly leave.<p>

She had been lucky to avoid Draco almost entirely, running into him only once at a restaurant in Diagon Alley. That one encounter, however, was one of the worst yet. She hadn't noticed him in the restaurant, and when she had gone to the ladies' room, he had followed, touching where he wasn't allowed and making terrible puns and generally invading her personal space. He had gotten his hand nearly all the way up her skirt before she escaped, which she only managed to do because she distracted him by pretending she was about to kiss him. It had then been the work of a moment to slip his own wand from his grasp and cast a stunning spell.

Hermione really did not understand why he thought that backing her into a corner and running his hands all over her without her permission was supposed to make her like him. Unless, of course, he had such an inflated opinion of his skills in the groping department that repetitive exposure to his magic hands was sure to wear down her resistance eventually.

Actually, now that she thought of it, she understood him perfectly.

Harry and Ginny had gone on vacation to Ireland, taking with them her only reliable source of company or entertainment – except for the thoroughly enigmatic and wholly perplexing Mister Malfoy, from whom she had not heard since their tea and brandy over three weeks earlier.

And so, Hermione filled the days she did not shop or eat out with her favorite activity: reading, of course. She was in this way occupied in her oversized chair one afternoon when something in her peripheral vision caught her attention.

Looking up from her book, she saw a large owl with shining, silver feathers flapping its wings insistently outside her window. Getting up from her chair, she opened the window and let the bird in. It made itself at home on her coffee table, ruffling its feathers and looking at her with round, knowing eyes. She reached over to retrieve the piece of parchment tied to the owl's leg, gave its head a gentle caress, and unrolled the note. It was unsigned, but watermarked with Lucius Malfoy's monogram.

_I hope your day has been more enjoyable than mine._

Hermione chuckled and shook her head in puzzlement. What a peculiar way to deliver such an inconsequential message! Especially considering how far Wiltshire was from London. She reached over to her coffee table and picked up a ballpoint pen lying there, and scribbled her response on the back of his note.

_You made this poor owl fly almost one hundred miles  
>just to tell me that? For shame!<em>

She tied the parchment back to the bird's foot, still chuckling to herself at the oddity of his memo, and lifted it out her window before settling back down into her chair and picking up her book again. The owl returned mere minutes later, rousing Hermione's suspicions; he must have been quite nearby to send her a reply so quickly.

_Don't fret over the owl, Miss Granger.  
>I am at Madam Malkin's getting some dress robes fitted.<em>

Nearby, indeed! He was in the same city. Hermione was relieved by his proximity; she had been bored to tears the past few weeks, what with Harry and Ginny having gone on holiday, but had not wanted to impose her company upon him. If he was already so near her house, maybe he wouldn't mind stopping by for tea.

But when she picked up her pen, Hermione was somehow hesitant to compose the invitation. He had never seen her apartment before, and it was a great deal less impressive than his manor; she imagined him, in all his wizardly state, sitting in her comparatively ordinary living room, and the visual was completely paradoxical. He would not be at ease in her flat, she was certain. She also had some doubts as to whether or not their partially realized friendship had progressed to the stage where such a request would be pertinent. He had only ever extended an invitation to her when she had thrown herself in his way.

And yet, here he was engaging her in small talk through owl notes.

Hermione settled on sending him the kind of familiar, teasing rejoinder she would send any other friend.

_Very well. I am satisfied that the owl  
>has not been misused.<em>

This time, after she dispatched the bird, she did not continue reading, but instead waited somewhat impatiently for his answering note, glancing at her wall clock or scanning the sky frequently. Exactly seven minutes later (and she knew, because she had been counting), it arrived.

_I have something for you._

Hermione's curiosity was piqued, but she was slightly exasperated at the brevity of his reply. She made hers even shorter, though she continued to tease him.

_Like a present?_

She had to wait only four minutes this time.

_Not exactly.  
>I'm fairly certain you won't like it.<em>

Hermione frowned at the words in consternation; what could he possibly mean?

_Then why are you giving it to me?_

Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen, and Hermione began to think that perhaps she had offended him. Resigning herself to the fact that it appeared there would likely be no more notes that afternoon, she got up from her chair and walked into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.

She had just removed her shrilly whistling kettle from the stove when his silvery owl returned, soaring neatly through her open window and landing on her breakfast table with an immaculately white, rectangular item clutched in its beak.

Intrigued, Hermione immediately stepped closer. Upon keener inspection, she realized it was a formal invitation.

It was obviously of the highest quality; the words, as well as the Malfoy crest, were engraved in black and silver on premium cardstock, which had a linen finish and felt like velvet between her fingers. Looped intricately through several holes around the edges and tied into an elegant bow at the top was a delicate, black satin ribbon. Reverently, Hermione took it from the bird and read.

_**Lucius Abraxas Malfoy  
>requests the pleasure of<br>Hermione Granger's  
>company at a ball<br>on Saturday the fifteenth of September  
>at seven o'clock<br>at Malfoy Manor**_

Feeling absurdly like Cinderella, Hermione allowed herself exactly ten seconds to blush and giggle like a teenager before taking a deep, cleansing breath and reminding herself that, although it was called a ball on the invitation, it was almost certainly the previously discussed singles group in actuality, and was therefore not nearly as glamorous or exciting as she was imagining. Once she had talked herself firmly into that mindset, she turned it over to see if he had written anything on the back – which, of course, he had.

_Because I am inherently a selfish person  
>and I think the only way I will find this accursed party<br>even remotely bearable is if you attend._

It was definitely the "pathetic party." Hermione laughed aloud, as she could imagine exactly how he would have said it had this conversation occurred in person. He would have begun with barely perceptible sarcasm and self-mockery, and finished with heavy bitterness at the idiocy of what the Ministry had succeeded in pressuring him to do. She was appropriately flattered by his insinuation that hers was the only company he expected to enjoy at the ball, should she choose to attend, but if there was any hint at flirtation written between those lines, it went straight over her head.

Smiling to herself, she detached the RSVP card, checked the box marked "accepts with pleasure," and sent the owl on its way.


	7. Pathetic Party

**Author's note: I'm so sorry it's been so long since I updated! I have no excuse; I just suck at life. But there's good news… I wrote chapters 8 and 9 before finishing 7, so tonight you get THREE new chapters! Leave me some love with a review. –Serena-**

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><p>Hermione stood before the full-length mirror in her bedroom, the bottom inches of her only formal dress pooled around her bare feet, and huffed in frustration at her reflection. She had been attempting for several minutes to alter the hue to just the right shade of purple, but each spell left it slightly off. If it was too blue it washed out her skin, and if she ventured too far into red territory she came perilously close to fuchsia, which was unacceptable.<p>

The dress, aside from its adamantly imperfect color, was lovely. Made of silk charmeuse that fell like water along her body, it fit like a glove through her waist before dropping in a straight line from the widest point of her hips to the floor. It subtly reflected small amounts of light when hit with it, and fell into deeper and richer shades in the shadows. The material's highlights and lowlights constantly shifted as she moved, lending to the illusion that it moved of its own accord. The dress was strapless, and the silk gathered beautifully at its gently plunging neckline, which was held in place with an invisible metal "V" sewn into the fabric.

It was, in a word, beautiful, and Hermione looked beautiful in it. Nothing could have been more flattering to the natural curves of her slender frame, and the neckline distracted from the fact that her endowments were not as generous as they could be. The color, however, was proving to be a substantial vexation, and Hermione had a small window of time left before she went from "fashionably late" to simply "late," and she hadn't even decided what to do about her hair or makeup.

Exasperated, Hermione expelled a rather unfeminine growl, gathered a fistful of the dress in her hand so she wouldn't step on the hem, and marched into her closet. She pawed through piles of shoes she never wore (because, though they gratified her sense of style, they caused her unmentionable pain), purses she never carried (because, though they were adorable, they were small and impractical), and clothes she had yet to launder, looking for something she owned that was close to the color she desired. Finally, she laid her hands on a cashmere sweater she had entirely forgotten about (not having seen it since early March). It was an exquisite shade of deep orchid; it was perfect.

Grinning, she returned to her mirror with the sweater in hand. With the target color right before her eyes, the spell was child's play. Having succeeded at last, Hermione twisted her caramel waves into a low, relaxed bun at the nape of her neck, allowing a few loose strands to frame her face; applied dark brown liner and almond-toned shadow to her eyes, rosy pink blush to her cheeks, and sheer gloss to her lips; clasped a small diamond pendant hanging on a delicate silver chain around her neck and matching studs in her ears; and slipped into a pair of silver peep-toe heels. Giving herself a final appraisal in the mirror and deeming herself worthy of a black-tie event, she slipped her wand into her silver clutch (on which she had placed an Undetectable Extension charm) and Disapparated.

* * *

><p>Feeling that Apparating directly onto Malfoy property would be in poor taste on the night of a social event, Hermione instead elected to appear just outside the gates. They opened as she took a step towards them, and she immediately began walking down the drive.<p>

There were softly glowing paper lanterns floating on either side of the path, and after a minute or so Malfoy Manor appeared around a bend, lit exuberantly by dozens more surrounding it. Every window on the face of the house had a light on the inside, giving the residence a more welcoming aura than Hermione had ever seen it possess. As she approached, it only grew, and by the time she reached the doors she felt utterly at ease.

That feeling was immediately dispelled upon her entry into the house. The manor had always been grand – that much was a given – but the glittering world she was walking into was simply beyond anything she had ever imagined. The overlarge front hall, she now realized, had another purpose: magnificent ballroom. The chandelier shone more brightly than would have seemed possible, shedding its light into every bright corner, every white silk streamer, every grain of the gleaming wood floor, and every facet of every crystal candleholder and goblet, which reflected the light back in a breathtaking sparkle, mimicking the jewels that adorned every lady present.

The guests were another lesson in splendor altogether. Finer gowns and robes Hermione had never witnessed, nor had she ever before seen so many precious gems united in one room. She was surrounded by taffeta, velvet, and satin, as well as diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds; suddenly she felt that the slinky material of her dress was inappropriate at such a gathering, and that her puny diamond pendant was hopelessly substandard.

Beginning to wish that she had not come, Hermione was just about to locate the nearest bathroom to attempt to transfigure her apparel into something more equal to her surroundings when her course of action was altered for her.

"Miss Granger," Lucius Malfoy smoothly greeted her with a shallow bow and a subtle smile.

"Mister Malfoy," she replied, wondering if she should curtsy but knowing she would feel utterly foolish doing so. She compromised by lowering her head in an imitation of his bow.

"May I escort you to the champagne fountain?" he asked.

"Champagne _fountain?_" she repeated incredulously, looking around for the piece of ostentation. Before he could answer her, however, she was recalled to her concerns. "Are you sure I'm not... underdressed?" she asked, eyeing the other guests self-consciously.

"Of course you're not," he answered with a slight frown. "You look stunning." He then offered her his arm, and after a moment of hesitation, she elected to believe him and took it.

Being personally escorted by her host (who was dressed quite fabulously, himself, in the Wizarding version of a black tuxedo with a deep green bowtie, matching emerald cufflinks, and white gloves) did wonders for her uncertainty; by the time they reached the champagne fountain (which was five feet tall and exactly as grandiose as it sounded), she felt like she fit right in with the elegant crowd. He picked up a fresh goblet and filled it with the sparkling wine, handed it to her, and filled one of his own; then they began a leisurely stroll around the perimeter of the room.

"It seems odd to me," Hermione observed, "that the Ministry would deem it important to match wizards and witches in this age bracket. Most of these women are nearing the end of their child-bearing years, aren't they?"

"Yes," Lucius confirmed, "but it still feeds into the Ministry's agenda. Although no one here – present company excluded – is obligated to marry, if they did it would set an example for the younger generation. They are all under the same pressure from the Ministry that I am."

"I see," she acknowledged.

After a moment of silence in which Hermione could tell he was fashioning a thought into a sentence, Lucius broached a brand-new subject. "I took the liberty of circulating a report that you were spoken for," he told her matter-of-factly.

Taken aback and more than a little confused, Hermione cast him a peculiar look from underneath gathered brows. "You did? Why?"

He leaned slightly in her direction, ensuring that he would be able to deliver his explanation quietly enough to keep from being overheard. "Being that you are the youngest and most attractive woman here, you would be highly sought after. And you must trust my judgment on this: most of the gentlemen present would be even less suited to you than Ronald Weasley."

Hermione, ever governed by logic and having already observed all the female guests and deemed them unremarkable, took his interpretation of her as no more than a statement of fact and missed the compliment he had paid her entirely. "When did you have the time to spread a rumor? You've been with me ever since I arrived."

"You are rather naïve, Miss Granger," he admonished her, though it was gently and playfully done. "Every male eye was on you the moment you walked in the door. I immediately told the man nearest to me that you were off limits, and then I came to join you."

"Hmm," was all Hermione had to say on the matter. Then she asked, "If I'm allegedly spoken for, what am I doing at a singles' gathering?"

The corner of Lucius' mouth twitched so minutely that if she had not been studying his expression with such focus she would have missed it. "You're the party planner," he replied mildly.

An appreciative grin spread across her face as she perceived his careful plan. "You're good," she admired, turning her gaze once more to the party. "Who _actually_ planned it?"

"I did," he confided.

Hermione's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "_You_ did this?" she asked incredulously, gesturing to the twinkling chandelier, silk streamers and assorted crystal. When he nodded, she said to him, "Now I feel guilty for taking the credit."

"Don't be silly," he quickly returned. "I could never admit to organizing and decorating all of this. It would completely emasculate me." Hermione laughed appreciatively at his jest, but he turned his gaze to her and there was not a trace of amusement in his eyes as he said, "I'm afraid I'm quite serious."

Lucius left her side shortly thereafter to see to his hosting duties, after having introduced her to a small group of women with whom he thought she would get along tolerably well. She found that she would fit in with them as long as she kept some of her more progressive opinions to herself – something she did not particularly enjoy doing – and spent the hour before dinner was served absorbed in careful and polite chitchat.

Lucius drew the attention of his guests promptly at eight-thirty and announced dinner. They all followed him into the dining room, and Hermione slowly walked alongside the alarmingly long and ornately carved dining table, reading the name card at each setting. She had walked almost the entire length of the table and had yet to find hers, and she began to feel the unpleasant tingles of predicted embarrassment in her belly as she worried that she would be the very last to find her seat. When she at last found her place, her anxiety was replaced with relief and surprise; she had been seated directly to the right of the head of the table! The seat at the host's right hand was traditionally reserved for a guest of honor; being that she was a Muggle-born and that her and Lucius' acquaintance had been only recently renewed, however, she was certain that it was merely an oversight.

She noticed that everyone was standing in front of their places and seemed to be waiting for something, so she followed suit. When Lucius reached his place at the head of the table he stood for a ceremonious moment before taking his seat, and then everyone else took theirs. The plates magically filled with food the way they did at Hogwarts; on tonight's menu was steak with a cognac pepper sauce along with garlic mashed potatoes. At Hermione's first bite of the tender beef, her eyes fell involuntarily closed; it was without a doubt one of the most delicious things she had ever tasted.

Her flavor-induced trance was interrupted by Lucius seeking dinner conversation. "How do you find the filet, Miss Granger?"

She took a moment to swallow her bite, her taste buds already mourning the absence of the food, before replying. "It's wonderful. My father used to cook steaks when I was a child, but they were nothing like this."

Lucius was intrigued. "Your father cooked?"

She nodded. "Yes. My mother never had the knack for it; she was always better with desserts."

"What sorts of things did she make?" he asked, seeming genuinely interested.

"Oh, all sorts. Cakes, pies, pudding... Her specialty was Italian cream cake."

"I have never heard of it," he admitted.

"The cake itself is rather bland," Hermione explained, "but the icing makes up for it. It's a cream cheese icing with fresh grated coconut mixed in, and slivered almonds on top."

Lucius smirked. "It sounds positively decadent," he declared.

Hermione returned the half-smile. "It's delicious."

A beat passed before Lucius continued, a subtle note of teasing audible in his tone. "But is it delectable?"

Hermione's eyes had already returned to her plate, and she kept them there, though her amusement was plain on her face. "Delightfully so," she answered, placing another morsel of meat in her mouth.

Lucius chuckled softly at their game, and then engaged the wizard to his left in idle chat and let her eat in peace.

* * *

><p>It was around eleven-thirty before guests started to leave; by midnight, only she and five others remained. Hermione had thoroughly enjoyed herself throughout the evening (and had even learned how to waltz after dinner, courtesy of her host), but the combination of the late hour, the dwindling number of guests, and the lingering presence of alcohol in her system made the atmosphere grow a little too intimate for Hermione's comfort. Lucius was conversing with two other people across the room; Hermione walked over to him and waited until he paused the dialogue to acknowledge her presence. "Thank you so much for having me, Mister Malfoy. It was lovely."<p>

"Are you leaving?" he asked. "I'll walk you out."

"No, really, you don't have to—"

"I insist, Miss Granger." He excused himself from his companions and they began walking towards the door.

He said nothing, and Hermione felt a little awkward. "Was the party a success?" she asked.

"You are in a better position to judge that," he countered.

"How so? This was a matchmaking party; you ensured I wouldn't pair up with anyone."

He turned his head to her, a look of concern upon his face. "Did I offend you by doing so? If I did, I apologize."

"No," she quickly assured him, "you didn't offend me. I only meant that I wouldn't know."

Lucius thought for a moment. "Whether it was successful or not really does not concern me," he said. "The Ministry wanted me to throw a party, and I did. My obligations have been met."

Hermione laughed. "Was it an obligation? You looked to be enjoying yourself."

He nodded in acknowledgement. "I did enjoy myself. That does not mean it wasn't an obligation."

"Fair enough," was Hermione's reply.

He saw her all the way outside to the top of the stairs leading to the path, and then they stopped and faced one another.

"Thank you for the invitation," Hermione said again. "It was nice to have an excuse to dress up," she added with a nervous laugh.

"It was my pleasure, Miss Granger."

She hoped he would not bow again, and he didn't; instead, he reached for her hand, raised it to his lips, and placed a quick kiss upon her knuckles.

"Good night."

In the very next instant, he had returned into the house.

Amused, Hermione thought to herself that throwing a ball must put Lucius Malfoy in a very curious mood; waltzing, seeing her to the door, kissing her hand! She carefully made her way down the steps and walked down the drive towards the gates, chuckling to herself all the way.

When she had reached the curve in the path that led away from the manor, she paused, turned around, and cast one last look upon it. She savored it as long as she could, took a deep breath, and Disapparated.

She was glad to have such a lovely memory of one of her last days as a free woman.


	8. Happy Birthday to Me

**Author's note: Yes, this one's very short. But don't worry, the next one more than makes up for it with DRAMATIC REVELATIONS. ;) –Serena-  
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><p>Hermione slept erratically the night before her birthday, awoke for the fourth time at about a quarter to eight o'clock in the morning, and finally decided that trying to sleep any more would be a fruitless endeavor. Groggily, she rose from her bed, walked over to her closet, plucked the first sweater she saw (a green cashmere pullover) from its hanger, and pulled on the same blue jeans she had worn the day before. Adequately dressed, she shuffled into the kitchen, where she immediately started a pot of coffee.<p>

As it brewed, she threw together some waffle batter with a little magical aid here and there. After she poured it evenly into her waffle iron and pressed it closed, she retrieved her favorite mug from the cupboard and filled it three-quarters of the way with coffee, the rest of the way with cream. She then returned to her waffle iron and flipped her breakfast onto her plate, adding some pre-sliced strawberries and – her greatest vice – whipped cream.

She carried her plate and mug to the table and sat down. Looking down at her perfectly prepared waffle, she couldn't help feeling that something was missing; then it dawned on her. She stood and walked over to the drawer in the kitchen in which she kept all the miscellaneous things that didn't belong in any of her other drawers. Sifting through pens, refrigerator magnets, and batteries, she reached into the back and found what she was looking for: a year-old package of birthday candles.

She pulled out a pink one, returned to her chair, and stuck it firmly in the middle of her waffle before lighting it with her wand.

"Happy birthday to me," she muttered morosely, and blew the candle out.

As she reached for her fork, she heard a loud _tap, tap, tap_ and looked up to see an owl striking her window with its beak. She stared at it for a rather long time, allowing it to continue its insistent pecking, because she very simply did not want to know what was contained in the letter tied to its leg. Eventually, though, she forced herself to get up and let it in.

After giving it a few knuts and sending it on its way, she unrolled the parchment and read.

_Miss Granger,_

_I am afraid we have a bit of a situation on our hands.  
>Please come to the Ministry immediately.<em>

_Respectfully,  
>Cornelius Oswald Fudge<br>Minister for Magic_

Hermione crumpled the parchment in her fist and threw it on the floor. She sat back down at her breakfast table to enjoy her waffle and coffee.

_Whatever the situation is,_ she thought to herself, _it can wait five bloody minutes._


	9. I Accept

**Author's note: REVIEW! That is all. –Serena-  
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><p>It wasn't until Hermione found herself at the Ministry, just down the hall from Fudge's office, that she was finally hit with a healthy dose of stomach-rolling anxiety. What exactly would she be walking into? What kind of "situation" could possibly require her presence to resolve it? Surely this entire, ridiculous thing was well out of her hands by now.<p>

She reached the Minister's door, took a deep breath in an attempt to slow her heartbeat, and knocked.

"Come in, Miss Granger," she heard him beckon.

Hermione opened the door and entered the room to find the Minister accompanied by Draco Malfoy, looking haughty and annoyed; Lucius Malfoy, standing nonchalantly beside him; and Ronald Weasley, whose ears were violently red.

_Oh, dear,_ she thought. Then, sighing heavily, she walked farther into the room until she was close enough to everyone there to be an active part of the conversation. "What seems to be the problem, Minister?" she asked in a tired voice.

"Good morning, Miss Granger, and happy birthday," Fudge greeted her. "I just need you to answer one question, and it should settle this whole thing. Who is Ronald Weasley to you?"

Confused, Hermione furrowed her brow at the Minister and cast a momentary glance in Ron's direction. "Who is he to me?" she repeated.

"Yes, my dear."

_Ex-boyfriend? Daily annoyance? Pain in my ass?_ "Um..."

"No one," Draco answered for her.

"She's my girlfriend," Ron asserted in a tone that suggested he had already said it several times that morning.

"She is not," Draco contended, still addressing the Minister. "And even if she was, it would be irrelevant. They are not engaged."

"Ignore him," Ron said to Fudge. "We've been together since before this law was even passed."

"Is that true, Miss Granger?" the Minister asked.

Hermione knew she had to step carefully. She couldn't bring herself to lie to the head of the magical government, but she still wasn't sure if throwing Ron under the bus was in her best interest, considering that her only other option was Draco. "Well... not exactly, but—"

"Are you engaged to him?" Fudge inquired, each word forcefully enunciated. It was clear that his patience was wearing thin.

Hermione sighed. "No, I'm not."

"_Yet!_" Ron amended. "We're not engaged _yet!_ But we intend to be! We're... we're engaged to be engaged!"

"Is that true?" Fudge repeated, once again turning to Hermione.

Exhausted by the utter absurdity of her situation, she could only numbly shake her head and gesture helplessly.

"Mister Weasley," Fudge began, "I cannot disregard Mister Malfoy's official request for Miss Granger without just cause. Can either of you give it to me?" he asked, signaling Ron and then Hermione in turn.

"Yes, I can," he maintained. "Hermione and I have a history. We've had feelings for each other since we were in school. We started dating as soon as the war was over." He paused then, blushed indelicately, shyly lowered his gaze, and continued more quietly. "We had each other's virginity."

"_Ron!_" Hermione hissed in reproach, thoroughly mortified to have her dirty laundry aired in front of her other would-be fiancé, his father, and the Minister of Magic.

"That's very touching, Weasley," Draco sarcastically countered, "but the fact remains that _you are not engaged_." He spoke the last words very loudly and slowly, as though to someone who was either hard of hearing or very stupid. "As of twelve o'clock on the morning of her twenty-second birthday, she was still not spoken for, and I made the first formal request for her. She is mine!"

"She is _not_ yours!" Ron argued, his volume beginning to rise in his anger. "She has been mine since we were seventeen!"

"Then tell me why there isn't a ring on her finger!" Draco demanded. "Wait, let me guess. You couldn't afford one!"

"_Death Eater!_" Ron roared furiously.

"_Pauper!_" Draco shot in return.

"If I may," Lucius smoothly interrupted, causing both young men to fall silent, though they still looked like they were trying to murder each other with their eyes. "I have called in an old favor with the Minister," he continued, nodding his head respectfully in the direction of Fudge, who returned it, "which should settle this argument most effectively."

"Hah!" Draco barked triumphantly, smiling at Ron in a sickeningly self-satisfied way. "Looks like you finish last _again_, Weasley."

Hermione sank into herself, feeling more hurt than she would have expected. She had thought that she and Lucius were friends, of a sort. He had acted as though he respected her, at least, and very probably liked her; he knew perfectly well that she did not want to marry Draco; and yet here he was, ensuring that she would have to. How could he do this to her?

She looked at him with glistening eyes, silently asking him that very question, and he returned her gaze, though the words he spoke were to the Minister. "I hereby formally request Hermione Granger's hand in marriage."

All of the oxygen was sucked out of the room, and Hermione nearly crumpled under the weight of the oppressive silence that followed. Her mouth hung open, though she did not feel it; the Minister smiled, though she did not see it. Lucius' eyes were unswervingly set on hers, and she found that she could not look away.

"_WHAT?"_ Ron bellowed.

"Calm down, Mister Weasley," Mister Fudge said.

"Father, you can't be serious!" Draco insisted.

"What's the matter, Draco?" Lucius drawled, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. His eyes were still locked on Hermione's. "You disapprove my choice?"

Something in his expression caused an indecent amount of blood to rush to her cheeks.

_"YOU SNEAKY, POMPOUS—"_

"This is not fair!"

_"—TWO-FACED—"_

"More than that, it's illegal!"

_"—MUGGLE-HATING—"_

"I made the first request!"

_"—SNAKE IN THE—"_

"_QUIET!"_ Fudge shouted. Then, encouraging Hermione to answer: "Miss Granger?"

Again, silence pressed upon her. Four faces peered expectantly at her: Draco was appalled, Ron's complexion rivaled his hair, Lucius waited patiently, and the Minister looked as though he had better things to do. She tried and tried again to absorb what had just happened, convinced that she must be dreaming. Lucius Malfoy, ask to marry _her?_ It simply could not be.

"Miss Granger," the Minister prodded again.

Hermione looked once more at Lucius. As was almost always the case when he was not smirking in condescension or amusement, his face was an expressionless mask. Could she stand to be married to him? Was he really so much better than his son, her only other alternative? She imagined one day – no, one _hour_ – as the wife of Draco Malfoy, who would treat her as a trophy or a decorative mantelpiece at best and as a sperm receptacle at worst. Yes, she decided, Lucius was by far the better choice. Then she saw it, a flicker in his eyes, there for an instant before it was gone: _hope._

She took a deep, steadying breath, held it a moment, and then she murmured: "I accept."

Fudge nodded, ready to proceed with the formality and move on to whatever else he had on his agenda for the day. "Very well, then," he said as he scribbled something in an open book on his desk. "Mister Malfoy, Miss Granger, if you would please approach." He stood from his chair and came around to stand before his desk, beckoning them with his hands.

"_No,_" Draco firmly protested. "Minister, this is completely out of bounds. The law clearly states—"

"I am aware of what the law states, Mister Malfoy," Fudge calmly interrupted, raising his hand to silence Draco. "You must have skimmed over the part which says that the Minister holds the power to, shall we say, _rearrange_ marriage requests under special circumstances."

Draco was sneering most unattractively. "What kind of circumstances?"

Fudge smiled complacently. "At my discretion."

"This is _rubbish!_" Ron shouted. "If you're going to _rearrange_ things, you should let her choose which of us she's going to marry!"

"_Enough!_" Hermione shouted, at last demanding to be heard. She paused long enough to take a deep, calming breath, and continued in a more reasonable tone. "This is really very simple. Lucius Malfoy has asked for my hand," she said, meeting his eyes. "The Minister's records"—and here she gestured to the book on Fudge's desk—"will show that he made the first request. And I have accepted. That is the end of it."

"Well spoken, Miss Granger," Fudge said. "Now, if you please." Again he beckoned her and Lucius to him.

Lucius took three smooth steps and stood beside the Minister; Hermione had to forcibly remind her muscles that they were supposed to respond to the signals her brain was sending. _Walk,_ she told herself absurdly. _One foot forward, and then the other._ Finally she moved, though her motions were stiff and wooden. What seemed like an hour later, she was standing next to Lucius and in front of Fudge. She looked up at Lucius' face, but he kept his gaze stonily set on the Minister, and she could glean nothing from his expression.

"Hold up your right hands, please."

They obeyed.

"What you are about to enter into is a binding legal contract. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Lucius replied.

Hermione swallowed once and parroted his response.

"It is hereby declared that, barring any mental illness, serious injury, or death, the two of you will marry within one year of today's date, the nineteenth of September, two thousand and one. Do you agree?"

Again, they both answered in the affirmative.

"Failure to uphold this contract is punishable by no less than one year in Azkaban prison. The Minister of Magic is the only official who can release you from these vows. Do you understand?"

Hermione's heart leapt, because she knew that Lucius had been imprisoned in Azkaban for his crimes as a Death Eater, and she knew that it must have been a horrifying experience for him. Was he really willing to enter into this contract, when the penalty for breaking it was to return to that place? She looked up at his face once again, and it was still without expression, but his jaw seemed to be set more firmly than it had been before. "Yes," he answered, and so did she.

Fudge threw his hands in the air and grinned as he exclaimed, "Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials! Now I must ask you to leave, I've got appointments for the next ten years of my life."

Mister Malfoy and Hermione exited the Ministry in complete silence: Lucius because he had nothing to say, and Hermione because she was too dumbfounded to speak. Draco and Ron had left without another word, and Hermione was unspeakably grateful for that, because she did not think she could stand the sound of their nattering on top of the inefficient whirring of her own mind.

They stopped once they had reached the street, and Hermione looked up at Lucius, wanting to ask him why he had done it but utterly certain that she was not ready to hear the answer. So instead, she offered numbly, "We're engaged."

He merely nodded. "That we are."

"You could smile, you know, if you're at all happy about it," she told him, a trifle testily.

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, for a moment, before returning to their at-rest position, but nothing else of his expression was touched by it.

Hermione frowned. "I suppose that will have to do," she said uncertainly. And, too disoriented by the day's events to realize she was being impolite, she turned and walked away. She left her fiancé behind her, thinking to herself, _It's only a quarter to nine in the morning._


	10. Telling the Potters

**Author's note: Here's another one! I loveloveLOVE reading your reviews and it is so much easier to write when I've been properly encouraged, so if you want another update sooner rather than later you should leave me one! I hope you enjoy it :) –Serena-  
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><p>The next day marked Harry's and Ginny's return from Ireland. Hermione had spent the intervening hours pretending that the episode at the Ministry had never happened, because every time her mind ventured even marginally into Lucius Malfoy territory she felt like it was literally going to shut down on her. She therefore went about her business as though nothing had changed while she awaited her friends' scheduled arrival.<p>

Right on time, Ginny's cheerful knock sounded on her door. She eagerly walked over to open it, greeted by the sight of her two closest friends, who looked every bit as happy to see her as she was to see them. "Hello!" Ginny said, hugging Hermione tightly (or as tightly as she could, being six months pregnant) for a long time before stepping into the flat. Harry embraced his friend for a shorter period of time but granted her a kiss on the cheek, and in the next moment they were all in the living room – Harry and Ginny side by side on the couch, and Hermione on her reading chair.

"What did you bring me?" Hermione cheekily asked.

"To hell with souvenirs!" Ginny indignantly cried. "It was your birthday yesterday, you twat!" Hermione and Ginny had the kind of relationship where they could call each other names (all in affectionate teasing, of course) and not take offense. "Do you really think I'm going to sit here oohing and aahing over snow globes with you when you're _engaged_ and I don't even know to whom?"

Hermione could feel her brain hitting that wall with which she had grown so familiar over the previous thirty or so hours – she could say the name "Lucius Malfoy" silently to herself, but that was about as far as she could go. "Right," she hesitantly acknowledged, "that."

Ginny's smile fell from her face and she and Harry clasped hands. "So it's Draco, then," she said, looking on her friend with sadness and sympathy.

Hermione sucked her lips in, failing to meet either Harry's or Ginny's eyes, and shook her head. "No."

Her guests each adopted a look of confusion and looked at the other, but of course neither learned anything from the exchange. Harry turned back to Hermione. "So you somehow convinced Ron not to tell everyone he's ever met the moment it happened?"

"Miraculous," Ginny admired, the grin having found its way back onto her face. "So we're going to be sisters?"

Hermione shook her head again. "It's not Ron, either."

Ginny's expression was now one of sheer outrage. "Not Goyle!"

Again, she signaled in the negative.

"Blaise Zabini?" Harry guessed.

Still, she only granted them with the same gesture.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Hermione!" Ginny exclaimed; pregnancy had shortened her normally liberal patience. "Spit it out!"

Taking a deep breath, Hermione raised her eyes to Ginny's, cast them momentarily to Harry's, and then brought them back to the redhead. She answered them calmly. "Lucius Malfoy."

It was as though someone had hit the pause button inside Hermione's apartment. Harry and Ginny were utterly frozen; not by expression or movement did they betray that they had heard her. After several excessively slow moments of silence permeating the air, Ginny finally spoke. "I missed something."

Hermione shrugged her shoulders and gestured helplessly, communicating that she had no light to shed on the subject. "So did I!" she replied. "I never saw it coming. I'm still not sure it actually happened."

"He desires you," Harry said, his eyes slowly clouding with anger at Mister Malfoy and concern for his friend. "He wants to acquire you, make you another one of his prized possessions."

At that, Hermione shook her head. "He's really not like that," she defended him. "Not anymore."

Harry scoffed. "Did he spin you one of those 'I'm a changed man' stories?" he asked, his voice absolutely soaked in cynicism.

"I believe he _has_ changed," Hermione softly maintained. "When Voldemort planned to kill Draco to punish him, he realized that he was on the wrong side." Harry, though silent, remained very visibly unconvinced, and Hermione blushed before anxiously asserting, "If you had been there when he said it, you'd believe it, too."

"Even if he _has_ somehow revised his entire philosophy," Harry said, "he's still a complete snob, Hermione! He's spent his whole life looking down on people, for one reason or another, and there's no reason he would stop now!"

"He's been nice to me," Hermione weakly countered. "And even if he hasn't changed, Harry, I'm still engaged to him. It's done. What good is this debate really going to do?"

Harry softened at that, but continued to press his point. "I just don't want you to go into this thinking he's someone he's not. If he's still the man he's always been, I want you to be prepared for that."

It was then that Ginny took back control of the conversation. "Did you see him at all, after the time we know about?" she asked, gesturing to herself and her husband.

"Yes," Hermione answered, nodding, "a few times."

"Where and how?" Ginny pried, getting right down to business.

"I accidentally Apparated onto his property while running from Draco," Hermione began to summarize, "and he invited me to walk with him around the garden. He asked me in for tea the time after that, and while you two were on holiday he sent me an invitation to a party at his house."

"A party?" Ginny repeated, a little puzzled.

"Yes. The Ministry wanted him to host a gathering for single witches and wizards around his age, hoping that matching older purebloods and non-purebloods would encourage people closer to our age to follow suit without so much complaint."

Ginny and Harry were still obviously confused, and Ginny asked, "Was there someone at the party he had in mind for you?"

"No," Hermione answered, "in fact, he told everyone there that I was spoken for."

In response to that bit of intelligence, Ginny began to study her friend with noticeably more focus. "Why?"

"He said that no one there was suited to me."

Their eyes narrowed, and just as Harry leaned against the back of the couch and placed his hand over his eyes, understanding dawned on Ginny's face and she began to laugh. "Oh, Hermione," she chided. There were small amounts of pity and condescension in her voice, but they were not enough to give Hermione any real offense. "You really didn't see this coming?"

"No," Hermione said, her brow furrowed in consternation. "Why should I have?"

Ginny scoffed in disbelief and laughed even harder as she looked at Harry, whose face was still hidden in his hands and who only shook his head as he listened to the two women converse. "What Mister Malfoy meant to say," she told her friend, "was that no one there was _good enough_ for you."

Hermione, still failing to comprehend what the other two grasped so fully, merely said, "Alright..." and waited to be enlightened.

"Don't you see? He wanted you for himself!"

"That's ridiculous!"

"He invited you to a matchmaking party and then made sure you wouldn't match up with anyone!" Ginny cried.

"He was just doing me a favor!" Hermione argued.

Ginny closed her eyes, shook her head, and sighed heavily. "Hermione," she began, her tone commanding her friend's full attention, "_think._ Think really hard about everything he's done, and while you're at it, think back on some of the things I'm sure he's said to you when you obviously weren't paying attention."

Appropriately chastised, Hermione complied, casting her eyes to the carpet so she wouldn't be distracted by her friend's eyes on her. She supposed, now that she thought of it, he had been a little insistent when telling her she should walk the garden, and he had spoken very freely with her about some things that must have been difficult to discuss... He had been terribly pleasant during their tea and brandy, even serving her himself, and had seemed to take a rather keen interest in her marriage prospects... He had invited her to a party she really had no business attending, allegedly for no other reason than the pleasure of her company... He had spread the word that she was off limits and then monopolized her for most of the evening (except for leaving her with a small group comprised entirely of women), seated her right next to him, asked her to dance, walked her to the door, kissed her hand...

All of that could be explained away by courtesy or coincidence, though Hermione was sensing that particular argument beginning to crumble. Reluctantly, she tried to remember particular things he had said that she might have overlooked or dismissed.

_I'd like to think I have a bit more self-control than the average twenty-one-year-old male. _He hadn't informed her that he was not even tempted to lay his hands on her, but had rather assured her that he was able to control himself.

_Is there not a single pureblood you would consider to be a suitable match for you?_ Surely he hadn't been subtly hinting at himself...

_Only if you haven't found a pureblood you can tolerate before then._ No, surely not...

_The only way I will find this accursed party even remotely bearable is if you attend..._

_You are the most attractive woman here..._

_You look stunning._

A look of horror crawled onto Hermione's face. "Oh, no," she mumbled, looking up into Ginny's sympathetic eyes with utter dismay in her own. "Oh, _no!_" she said again, plunging her face into her hands. _You look stunning._ "Oh, my god!" she moaned, her voice muffled by her fingers.

"Are you alright, sweetheart?" Ginny asked, reaching over to place a hand on her friend's knee.

"I am such a fool!" Hermione cried, hastily jumping to her feet and beginning to pace. "A bumbling, insensible fool! It was so obvious! How could I have missed it?"

Ginny, unsure of anything she could say that would be at all helpful or comforting, reached into her bag and withdrew an object she then offered to the distressed Hermione. "I brought you a snow globe..."


	11. Sorting Out the Details

**Author's note: I'M BACK! Oh, I've missed this. I won't bore you with the details of my absence; suffice it to say that I've been as busy as… um… someone really, REALLY busy. I'll write as many chapters as I can before the new semester starts and I drown in textbooks again… but for now, here – have some Lumione. :) –Serena-  
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><p>Hermione's chin rested on her hands, which were folded on top of each other on her mantle, with her face so close to the snow globe perched there that its outer edges extended beyond her peripheral vision. This suited Hermione just fine, as for the moment she wanted to see and think of nothing more significant than the cheaply-painted Leprechaun grinning somewhat maniacally atop a pot of gold, surrounded by falling green glitter, shamrocks, and gold coins. This tacky souvenir was just the sort of gaudy thing that she and Ginny found endlessly amusing; the Muggle interpretation of the mischievous creatures was that they measured about three feet high, wore green suits and pilgrim-like hats, and had a greedy obsession with gold, which they stored in pots that looked suspiciously like cauldrons and could be found at the end of a rainbow. This couldn't be more off the mark, as Leprechauns were in fact about six inches tall, wore clothes made of leaves, and placed no value on actual gold whatsoever but entertained themselves enormously by putting counterfeited gold into people's possession. The discrepancy between the actual Leprechaun and the one sitting before Hermione's nose had diverted her just enough in the ten or fifteen minutes since Harry and Ginny had gone to keep thoughts of one Lucius Malfoy, her fiancé, on the outer edges of her mind. Still, they pressed, gently but persistently, against her brain.<p>

Releasing a sigh, she said to herself, _When the last piece of glitter hits the bottom, I'll owl him._ But the last piece of glitter fell, and she turned the globe over again.

How could she have been so oblivious? Harry and Ginny had seen it without even witnessing it! Hearing only her casual and relatively vague account of events, they had both understood what she, with her complete and direct involvement, had not even begun to suspect. Lucius fancied her. He had been pursuing her, in his way, for some time. Perhaps all along.

_Cleverest witch of my age, indeed,_ she scoffed at herself. _I can't even tell when a man is flirting with me unless he's got his tongue down my throat or his hand up my blouse._

Resolutely stepping away from her mantle and the comfort of the distracting snow globe, she walked across the room to her small desk, in which she stored her ink and parchment. Before she could sit down to write him a letter, however, she decided that she was not up to a trip to the Owl Post Office today. In fact, she was not sure she was up to much of anything beyond ice cream and flannel pajama pants, but that was not a luxury she felt she could grant herself. It had been a full day and over half of another since she had departed Lucius' company (rather rudely, she now realized), and although she would have loved nothing more than to avoid the necessary conversation for at least a few days more, she had the sense to know that time has a way of making awkward situations even more so.

On the other hand, she also felt that turning up on his property uninvited for a third time would be especially inappropriate now that things were so… well, whatever they were between them.

Not for the first time, Hermione kicked herself for not buying an owl of her own, even though she found nothing lovable in them and she knew she would have detested cleaning out its cage every day.

Mentally exhausted from the entire ordeal of finding herself engaged to someone she had only just realized was attracted to her and not knowing how to proceed from there, Hermione was about ready to dive back into the swirling abyss of her snow globe when she heard three rather loud raps on her door, arriving in rhythmic yet unhurried succession.

Mildly perplexed by the unfamiliar knock, Hermione approached the door with a slightly furrowed brow, which shot up immediately when she looked through her peephole to see none other than the source of her emotional turbulence. The one and only Lucius Malfoy was on her front step in his normal grand attire, looking wholly unperturbed to be standing on a Muggle street.

Her heart promptly began pounding out the percussion to "Paradise City" while her stomach did violent somersaults in her abdomen, and she was quite exasperated with herself when she realized that her bloody _palms_ were sweating. Turning from the door for a moment, she wiped them agitatedly on her jeans and whispered to herself, "For god's sake, _get a grip!_ He's just a man, like any other." One, two, three deep breaths later, she turned around and opened the door.

"Mister Malfoy," she greeted him with what she hoped was a tone of casual surprise and a calm, collected smile.

She must have failed, because his brows drew together at the sight of her. "Miss Granger, are you quite all right? You're very flushed."

She could feel the heat of even more blood rushing to her cheeks in embarrassment, but she did her best to shrug it off. "I'm fine, it's just a little warm in here," she said. Then, noticing a man across the street looking at him rather oddly, she opened her door all the way and stood aside. "Come in," she offered.

He accepted her invitation, crossing her threshold with none of the urgency she felt about getting him out of sight from her Muggle neighbors. She closed the door as soon as he was clear of it.

He strode with the same leisurely pace into the middle of her living room, while she (for reasons unknown to her) remained in the foyer with her back against the door. It was several long moments before she shook herself free of her shock and said, "I'm sorry, can I take your cloak?"

"I can't stay long," was his reply. "I have some business to attend to regarding my estate. But I thought that we should talk. And I thought, under the circumstances... the sooner, the better."

Hermione experienced some relief that she did not have to be the one to say it, but her pulse quickened again at the idea that the conversation she had been dreading was now upon her. Still, she did her best to participate in it. "Yes, I think so too," she said, wandering sheepishly into his vicinity, though still maintaining an obvious distance from him. "I was actually just about to send you an owl."

"Very well, then," he responded. "Ladies first."

_Oh, spectacular. Where to start?_ "Please have a seat," she said, gesturing to her reading chair.

He did, and she took a seat on the couch across from him.

Hermione could not think of a single thing to say. "Would you like some tea?" she asked, stalling again.

"No, thank you," he politely declined.

With that route dead-ended, still more moments of silence stretched between them. His eyes were locked on her, and although his gaze could not have been called intense by any stretch, the fact that he simply waited for her to initiate the conversation and said nothing to prod her or help her along made Hermione feel as though she was under keen scrutiny.

She still had not managed to form a cohesive sentence in her head, but she was starting to wonder if beginning a sentence regardless might not ease the flow of the rest of it. "It seems…" she began, and found that her theory did not pan out. She continued anyway, simply to fill the silence. "It seems that I have missed the point."

Lucius merely went on looking at her, displaying neither confusion nor understanding.

She tried again. "There have been certain things which entirely escaped my notice and have since been called to my attention."

While it was clear that he was listening, not by even the minutest twitch if a muscle did he betray any inner reaction to what she had said.

She was beginning to lose patience with his unresponsiveness, but the nature of their relationship was in such an upheaval that she no longer felt comfortable calling him out. So, instead, she kept trying to articulate what she herself had not quite sorted out. "I hadn't realized... I didn't understand that you were... that you thought of me as..." Now beginning to lose patience with herself, she simply started blurting out the things that Ginny had made her consider in a clumsy, stumbling mockery of speech. "Talking so much about my marriage prospects, and—you know?—and maybe flirting with me at the ball a little bit, maybe, I don't know—and-and-with the 'stunning' talk, and—"

Suddenly, Lucius' face split into a grin and he chuckled most appreciatively. Was he laughing at her? "Don't fret over it, Miss Granger," he said, amusement lingering in his voice. "Those things were not necessarily meant to be noticed. I was... testing the waters, I suppose you could say. If I had been definitively courting you, believe me, you would have noticed."

Hermione had not believed it was possible to be less informed on the elder Malfoy's intentions, but she was wrong; she was more confused than ever. Did he like her or not? Was he attracted to her or not? Was it possible that he was simply bored? Playing keep-away with Draco for some form of entertainment?

Indignation began to bubble up inside of Hermione. Her jaw clenched, she fixed her eyes on one specific spot on her wall, and her fingers were laced together so tightly that her knuckles were white.

Lucius correctly identified all of these things as bad omens for him. "Forgive me," he said, "have I offended you?"

"Offended me?" Hermione repeated in a dangerously cool tone. "Of course not. Why should I be offended simply because you thought it prudent to inform me that you fancy me enough to 'test the waters' but not quite enough to 'definitively court' me?"

"I did not know how you would react," Lucius defended himself. "I thought perhaps openly pursuing you would make you uncomfortable."

Hermione did not respond, and all her muscles remained stubbornly tensed.

"Miss Granger," Lucius began, leaning forward in his chair, "rest assured that I find you exceedingly attractive."

She did not entirely relent, but at least he now had her attention. She was listening.

"However I have changed, you cannot believe that I would ever do something I did not explicitly want to do."

That much, Hermione could believe. She took a few moments to calm her temper then nodded her acquiescence, giving him permission to continue.

He returned to his "lord of the manor" pose in his chair and carried on. "I have been thinking that it might be wise if you moved into the manor. In one of the guest rooms, of course," he hastily amended. "It would be best if we had as many opportunities as possible to get to know one another before we are married."

Hermione nodded. "I agree, but do you think my moving in is really necessary? We have a year, after all."

"A year at the absolute latest," he replied, "but I see no reason to wait that long. Do you?"

_You mean apart from the fact that I barely know you and this is all happening so fast that I'm pretty sure even I've missed more than half of it?_ "No, I suppose not. No practical reason, anyway. How soon were you thinking?"

His answer arrived so speedily that it was clear he had already given it some thought. "Six months should be sufficient to plan a decent wedding."

She would be married in six months. She would be Mrs. Malfoy in half a year. Hermione felt the need to turn her brain off for a while coming on fairly quickly. "Six months of planning sounds a bit grand, really," she softly countered. "Surely a 'decent' wedding can be achieved in two or three months, so what's the hurry? We can put it off a little while, while we get to know each other."

It was at precisely that moment that Mister Malfoy adopted what could almost have been described as an apologetic expression. "A Malfoy wedding is a fairly grand affair," he offered as an explanation.

Of course it was. If a singles' gathering merited the treatment it had received at Malfoy Manor, to what amount of spectacle would a wedding be entitled? And virtually every member of the Wizarding world would be invited, she was sure, now that Lucius apparently did not discriminate (_quite_ apparently, if she was any evidence). "Very well," she conceded with a sigh. She then rolled the idea of moving into the manor over in her head for a little while. She would be sad to give up her flat, as she had grown to feel very much at home there and with it came a large measure of independence. On the other hand, Lucius made a very good point when he said that they would fare best with every available opportunity to get better acquainted; and what better way was there to do that than to live with the person? The logical part of Hermione's brain also pointed out to her that she would be moving there eventually anyway; now or six months from now, what was the difference, really? The only normal objection would be that it was too soon; but they did not have a normal relationship.

Nodding to herself as she came to a decision, Hermione said, "I'll move into the manor as soon as possible. I'll have to speak to my landlord, of course."

Lucius hesitated as he seemed to consider something. "I could simply—"

"_No_," Hermione forcefully objected, knowing that he was referring to modifying her landlord's memory. She heartily disapproved of taking such measures unless they were absolutely necessary.

He immediately abandoned that line of discussion. "As you wish." He then stood, prompting her to do so as well, and said, "Please inform me of your plans at your earliest convenience." He walked over to her, took her hand in his, bent over it and said, "Miss Granger," before landing a kiss upon it and Disapparating without further delay.

The feel of his lips upon her skin seemed just a bit more vivid to her than it had before, but she did not bother thinking on that now. There was a pint of Rocky Road in her freezer calling her name.


	12. Telling Mum

**Author's note: Here's another one! Hermione deals with her mother's resistance to her engagement. The "Dad" chapter will come a bit later… have some stuff I need to do in between. Enjoy! –Serena-**

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><p>To say that Hermione's mother had not been glad to hear of Hermione's engagement to a forty-something elitist would have been wildly understated.<p>

Mrs. Granger had been made aware of the Preservation of Magic Act, of course, and of its implications for her daughter, but she had never been able to take it quite as seriously as she should have. Obviously, she knew that her daughter was a witch and that there was an entire world comprised of people like Hermione, a world with its own customs, currency, and government. She had understood that, as a witch under this new law, her daughter would be obligated to enter into an arranged marriage. What she had failed to understand was that compliance with the law was in no way optional. She had been quietly entertaining the delusion that if Hermione did not end up engaged to someone she loved and truly wanted to marry, she could simply opt out of the entire magical experience. It was on this point that she and Hermione were arguing as Hermione packed her bags for Wiltshire, a process that she had driven all the way to her daughter's flat to bring to a halt.

"Darling, really, I'm sure we can sort it out," she maintained. "There's no need to be so hasty. Giving up your apartment is a rather rash decision. You don't want to have to move back home with your father and me when all of this is over, do you?"

Hermione held her temper in check by breathing deeply as she continued filling her suitcase with clothes. "I've already sublet the apartment. The new tenants are moving in tomorrow. And no, we really _can't_ sort it out. I've told you, it's the law."

"I'm sure the Minister is a reasonable man," she pressed, anxiety creeping into her voice.

Hermione sighed. She had told her parents almost everything about the Wizarding world in the years since she had been admitted into Hogwarts, but she had very intentionally left out all the business about the war. She had thought that it would do nothing but cause them undue stress and make them worry for her, and so she had omitted every detail of that unpleasantness from her stories to them. And now, consequently, her mother had not even the faintest understanding of why this law had been put in place. While Hermione disagreed with it on principle, she at least understood how it would benefit the Wizarding race in the long run. Her mother had no such luxury.

"I'm sure he'd exempt you if you came back to live in the – " Hermione knew her mother had been about to say "the real world," and even though she had caught herself, Hermione was still irritated. " – the world that you were born in," she finished. "You could go to university! You would do perfectly well for yourself without magic, as a lawyer or maybe a dentist like your father and me. You could even join our practice! They can't force you to comply with their laws if you choose to not to live as one of them."

Hermione took another deep breath, trying to hold onto what little patience she had left. "Mum, I can't just _choose_ to be a Muggle, just like I didn't _choose_ to be a witch," she explained. "That is simply what I am, and as such I am subject to Wizarding law."

Mrs. Granger knew it was true, but still she tried to argue. "But he's so much older than you!"

"Wizards live longer than Muggles, remember?" she reminded her mother. "By magical standards, he's not even middle-aged."

"But you don't love him!"

She had hit upon the one subject that actually bothered Hermione. In all her life, it had never even occurred to her that she would marry someone she did not love. She was making the best of the situation, but she could not rightly say that it did not make her a little sad. Taking a moment to stem the flow of emotion before it had a chance to begin, she answered in a much subdued tone. "I like him, and I respect him. We have grown to be fairly good friends these past few weeks, and honestly, Mum, marriages have been made on a lot less." She took another restorative breath before adding, "His proposal also saved me from two much less agreeable potential fiancés. There's a lot to be thankful for."

Mrs. Granger had nothing to say to that.

Hermione abandoned her suitcase for a moment and sat down next to her mother on the bed, taking her hand in hers. She finished gently but plainly. "This is happening whether you like it or not. I know you don't believe it, but I am telling you: it can't be helped. I really need your support. If you could just find a way to take an optimistic view of this, it would be much easier for me to do the same."

Her mother took a couple of minutes to absorb everything she had said; although she had heard it all before, she had never really attempted acceptance of it. Now Hermione's refusal to consider any of her suggestions was finally convincing her of the event's inevitability. Displaying a characteristic she had passed on to her daughter, she bore up and made the best of it. "Well, is he handsome, at least?" she asked, smiling.

Hermione gratefully returned the smile and thought for a moment before replying, in a tone of barely perceptible surprise, "Yes." She had honestly never thought of Lucius in that light before, but now that she did, she realized that she did find him handsome. "Yes, I'd say he is."

"What does he look like?"

"Well," Hermione began, "he has long blonde hair and gray-blue eyes; he's, I would guess, at least four inches taller than me; and he's very… intense. Stoic, really. His expression rarely changes… I've only seen him laugh once, and as it was at my expense, I wasn't really in a frame of mind to appreciate it."

"What did you do that made him laugh?" her mother inquired.

"Oh, just stumbling over my words," Hermione answered with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I couldn't find the right thing to say."

Her mother made a noise of acknowledgement and then asked, "Do you think he likes you? Or is there another reason he might want to marry you?"

A small wave of mental exhaustion washed over Hermione; the feeling had become quite familiar, as it occurred any and every time she attempted an analysis of her situation or of Lucius' motives. Shaking her head, she simply replied, "To be honest, I'm not sure why he asked for me. He is not legally obligated to remarry, though the Ministry was putting some pressure on him to do so. But… yes, I think he likes me. A bit. In his way." When her mother laughed, Hermione realized how silly that had sounded and laughed back, though she attempted to defend the ambiguity of her statement. "It's hard to tell with him! He's so inexpressive."

"That can be frustrating after a while," Mrs. Granger cautioned.

"Oh, it already is," Hermione assured her. "But I can needle a response out of him when it's important. I have before."

"Don't you consider the way he does or doesn't feel about you to be important?"

Again, Hermione tiredly shook her head. "I just don't think I'm ready to know."

Accepting her answer, Hermione's mother changed the direction of the conversation. "Well," she said, "I'm still not at ease about this whole thing, but you can count on me for support, Hermione."

Hermione smiled. "Thanks, Mum." She rested her head on her mother's shoulder.

"Don't expect your father to be so understanding, though."

Hermione groaned. While her mother had initially responded to the news with an irritating lack of gravity, her father's reaction had been even worse: he hadn't said a word. Hermione suspected that he knew good and well that there was no way out for her, and that he was privately distraught by her fate. She expected quite a battle from him, when she finally cornered him into talking about it. "I'll speak to him about it later." Then, in a childlike tone she had not used in years, she said, "Will you soften him up for me?"

Mrs. Granger gently patted her daughter's head and replied, "I'll do my best, sweetheart."

An hour later, Hermione waved as her mother drove away, dropped her keys in the letterbox outside her door, and made her way back into the living room. She placed a hand on her one small suitcase, into which she had packed all of her clothes, toiletries, and books (by way of an Undetectable Extension charm, naturally), and took one last look around her apartment. She was leaving all her furniture for the new tenants, a newly married couple, for which they would pay her a little extra every month until they had paid for it entirely. She was going to miss her little one-bedroom flat. It suited her; small but not cramped, nice but not obnoxiously so. Malfoy Manor would be nothing of the sort.

Still, she was confident that she could learn to feel at home there, too - as long as Lucius permitted her to throw a little more color into the décor.

"Well," she said to herself with a sigh, "that's it, then." She Disapparated.


	13. Forgive My Bluntness

**Author's note: I'm sorry for taking so long! Some of you have asked: This story is NOT on hiatus, nor do I foresee any circumstance in which it will be. I always intend to write "soon," although "soon" to me can end up being weeks, unfortunately… :( I'm sorry! I'm a full-time college student and am also planning a wedding (yes, mine :D) so free time is difficult to come by. Please be patient with me!**

Here's chapter 13. Hermione moves in, and Lucius asks a very frank question. Enjoy! –Serena-

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><p>Hermione appeared a short distance away from the front doors of Malfoy Manor, about halfway between the house and the gardens. She turned her head to slowly sweep her eyes over the green, flowering hedges—a much more peaceful sight than the imposing, towering edifice of her new home. After a time, however, her neck and her pride both started objecting to her avoidance, and she faced the house head-on. Hermione very much doubted that any home in England was more intimidating, palaces and castles notwithstanding. It was the more so because she was to be its new mistress. She was not raised among this station, or any such grandeur. She was the daughter of dentists; she had no hint of aristocracy, no pedigree to speak of. She felt utterly unequal to the task of being a Malfoy.<p>

The fact that she was indeed to become a Malfoy had still not entirely settled into her mind as reality. But few things could be more real than her suitcase, hard and heavy in her hand, and the unyielding earth beneath her feet, which just so happened to be located on Malfoy grounds.

Heaving a sigh, Hermione walked up to the steps of the manor, ascended them, and—because she did not feel quite ready to simply waltz in as if she owned the place—knocked.

After the briefest of moments, the enormous oaken door creaked open. It appeared that no one was standing there, which would not have been terribly unusual in a Wizarding house, but then Hermione looked down and saw a shy but sweet-looking house-elf. "Hello," she greeted it.

"Mistress Granger?" she—the voice was decidedly feminine—squeaked.

She hadn't even crossed the threshold, and already she was uncomfortable. "Please, call me Hermione."

"Mistress Hermione," the house-elf said, and stood aside to let her in.

Accepting that this was probably the most she could get the house-elf to budge on the subject, Hermione stepped into the house. The door closed loudly behind her.

As if on cue, Lucius appeared in the foyer. "Good afternoon, Miss Granger," he said with a bow.

Hermione, a bit annoyed by all the bowing, did not make any attempt to return an equal gesture, but simply said, "Hello."

"This is Fern," he told her, indicating the elf hovering around Hermione's knees.

At her introduction, Fern spoke. "Fern will take Mistress Hermione's things up to her room," she announced, reaching for Hermione's suitcase.

"No, really, I—" Hermione began, strongly objecting to the enslavement of house-elves in general and being waited upon by one in particular.

"Fern," Lucius said in a kind but firm tone, "Miss Granger will not require your assistance unless she calls for you."

"Yes, Master," Fern said, and scampered away, presumably to continue her daily work.

"I will show you to your room," Lucius offered.

"Thank you," Hermione said, grateful that he had dismissed Fern but still rather cranky that he had servants to dismiss.

He held out his hand for her bag, but when she assured him that it wasn't that heavy he took note of the bright agitation in her eyes and wisely made no more mention of helping her.

As they climbed the stairs, Lucius made small talk by asking if all her affairs had been set in order, if she had eaten, and what her plans were for the next few days. When all those topics had been covered, they were still not to her room.

Finally, two flights of stairs and two right turns later, they arrived at her door. Lucius opened it for her and remained where he was as she took a single step in and looked around.

There was a very large window on the far wall, but most of it was covered by a heavy, dark curtain—it could have been green or blue, Hermione wasn't sure in the dim light. The bed was large and similarly clothed with a dark, patterned comforter and matching bed curtains; the walls were papered in a vaguely floral pattern, but it was hard to tell because of the grayish, not at all floral color scheme; the furniture was all dark stained wood, probably more oak. There was a dresser, two nightstands, and a vanity with a mirror and a French-style chair. The room had a slightly musty scent about it, betraying years of disuse.

Hermione stood in the same spot, exactly one step into the room, and looked at all its furnishings without saying a word for several long, increasingly uncomfortable minutes.

Eventually, Lucius cleared his throat and said, "I realize it's a little—"

"Depressing," Hermione interrupted.

"It hasn't been occupied in years," he said by way of explanation. "Please redecorate it however you like."

Hermione nodded. "Alright." She then purposefully strode into the room, put down her suitcase, opened the window to air out the room, and pulled out her wand, looking around as though trying to decide where to start.

"I will leave you to it," Lucius said, recognizing that he was not wanted or needed at the moment, and retreated.

"Thank you," Hermione called after him, already casting spells.

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><p>Hermione had begun by ripping down the window and bed curtains; for some reason they depressed her most. She intended to replace them with a material similar to mosquito netting—sheer, white, and gauzy—only finer, but she would have to buy it since she did not know how to Transfigure them. Using the floral pattern of the wallpaper for inspiration, she decided to go with a roses-and-cream sort of theme. She changed the color of the paper to a very pale solid beige and applied the floral pattern to the bedspread in a warm, peachy-pink. The bed sheets matched the walls, and the dark wood was now a light natural color. She had plans to find some artwork for the walls that would pull the pink from her bed and echo it around the room.<p>

During her exploration of her quarters, she had wandered into her bathroom (which was accessed through a door near the window) and nearly fainted with delight. She had never seen a tub so big in all her life. It looked like she could float in it and neither her head nor her feet would touch the ends. There were beautiful marble counters and enough storage space for _all_ of her products, as well as a large window that let in lots of light but had warped glass for privacy.

At some point during her renovating rampage, Fern had come in and said, "Dinner is being served soon, Mistress. Master told Fern to ask if Mistress wanted to eat downstairs or have her food brought here."

As Hermione had been deeply engrossed at the time, all she took from that was "stop working or eat and work." So, absentmindedly, she had asked Fern to bring her dinner up and gone about her business.

When she was finally finished with all she could do from scratch, Hermione stood back and admired her handiwork, very pleased with herself. Only when she had completely descended from her decorating craze did she think to wonder what time it was and, looking at her watch, saw that it was past ten o'clock at night.

She immediately worried that she had been unforgivably rude for ignoring Lucius for so long and, too late (as was typical for her), realized that she should have dined downstairs with him. She should at least go and see him now, she thought, if only for a few minutes. But she felt so uncomfortable about being so obliviously ungracious that she was almost embarrassed to seek his company now.

Finally, Hermione decided that she was being quite silly. She couldn't stay locked in her room forever, and the longer she waited to emerge the more awkward it would be when she did. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath through her nose, and exhaled inelegantly through her mouth, her cheeks puffing out a little as she did so. She resolutely stepped in the direction of her door, but on the way she passed the mirror on her vanity and gracelessly halted to examine her reflection.

Finding herself a little worse for the wear, Hermione took a few moments to freshen herself up. She tamed her hair (which had gotten rather frizzy) back into some semblance of the smooth waves she preferred; put on a fresh shirt (a simple white tee); applied a single spritz of her favorite perfume (a very light jasmine scent); and gave her cheeks a nice pinch to bring them a small blush. Then, deeming herself attractive but natural-looking, she once again headed for her door.

The manor was always quiet, but now it lacked even the soft bustle of the house-elves; they must have already gone to bed. Hermione worried for a moment that perhaps Lucius had retired for the night, too, but somehow she sensed that he was still up and about somewhere. She ventured down the stairs to the first floor and heard the crackle of a fire coming from the direction of the study. Her footsteps barely made a sound as she padded across the carpeted floor, and even when she reached the doorway and saw Lucius with his back to her, sitting in his chair before the fire with a glass of brandy in his hand, he did not detect her presence. Granting herself only one moment to observe him unnoticed, she gently knocked on the doorjamb.

Lucius quickly turned his head, saw her, and began to get up from his chair. "Miss Granger," he said as he did so.

"Oh, no, you don't have to get up—" Hermione began, but it was too late. He had already risen and was halfway across the room.

He stopped about four feet away from her and, apparently having decided that they had passed the "needlessly formal" stage of their courtship, didn't bow. This pleased Hermione, since she had always found it slightly awkward. "I was just having a nightcap. Would you care to join me?"

"Yes, please," she replied, relief loosening apprehension's tight grip on her lungs.

"Please do have a seat," he said, gesturing to the chair next to his. "I will pour you a glass."

As he set about getting her drink, Hermione settled into the chair he had offered, sighing contentedly as the heat from the fire warmed her legs. She absently thought to herself that it would probably take her a long time to get used to the manor's slight chill.

In less than a minute, Lucius had put a glass in her hand and sat back down next to her. She noticed that he had watered her drink down a bit and smiled before taking a careful sip. He undoubtedly remembered the way she had reacted to his brandy the last time and had taken care to prevent a recurrence. Even with his thoughtful ministration, the drink put a slight glaze over her eyes almost immediately.

"How is your room coming along?" he politely inquired.

Hermione nodded and said, "Oh, it's looking really lovely. I'm almost finished. There are just a few things I can't properly transfigure and I'll have to buy new."

"When you do, tell the shopkeeper to put it down under my name. I have accounts at nearly all the shops at Diagon Alley, as well as some in Paris. Spare no expense."

He didn't say it with intentional arrogance, but simply stated it as the fact it was; still, he utterly failed to appreciate how exorbitant it sounded. Hermione laughed quietly at his particular brand of ignorance and thought to herself that she would have to do her best to bring him down to Earth a bit. It also occurred to her that, even for a Malfoy, "spare no expense" seemed a little extravagant for someone who had just moved into his house, betrothed or not. Not wanting to jump to conclusions, she decided to ask her question jokingly. "Are you trying to buy my affections?" she asked with a smile.

He blinked solemnly at her, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. "No," he calmly replied. "I am trying to buy you the things you want."

"And you're hoping that giving me the things I want will prompt some sort of fondness?" she said, still joking—kind of.

"No," he answered, still calm and still almost smiling. "I am hoping that having the things you want will make you feel comfortable here. It is, after all, your home now."

Hermione studied his face for a long moment, decided he was telling the truth, and expelled a soft, "Mmm," by way of acknowledgement as she let go of his gaze and took another sip of brandy.

They passed perhaps five minutes in companionable silence, not quite enough at ease to look at each other at any point during it, but content nonetheless, before Lucius said: "Miss Granger?"

"Hmm?" she said, looking at him but finding his gaze lowered.

"I hope you don't mind me asking, but..." Here he trailed off, appearing to study his glass with uncommon single-mindedness while in actuality he was struggling to find a polite and tactful way to phrase his question. At last, he gave up on delicacy. "Forgive my bluntness, Miss Granger, but are you a virgin?"

Hermione felt a small amount of heat rushing to her cheeks, but was fairly confident that her blush was not obvious. "You were there when Ron... when he said..."

"I thought perhaps he was lying," Lucius explained. "He lied a great deal that morning."

She and Lucius had only been friends (for lack of a better word, because Hermione could attest to the fact that there wasn't one) for a few weeks, and discussing such things with him felt wildly inappropriate, especially given the age difference. But as her fiancé she felt he had the right to know. "No," she demurely replied, "that part was true." She lifted her own glass to her lips to take another sip. He nodded, but did not speak; after a rather long moment, she asked: "Does that disappoint you?"

His eyebrows rose very slightly as he signaled in the negative. "No. No, not at all. I have no opinion on the subject. I only asked so that I would know how to behave on our wedding night."

Now, Hermione was positive that her entire face—and perhaps even her neck and the upper part of her chest—had flushed scarlet. Lowering her head in an attempt to make it less obvious, she offered merely a timid, "Oh," in acknowledgement.

Despite her efforts to disguise it, Lucius did notice her discomfiture and, ever the gentleman, was quick to try to relieve her of it. "If you would prefer not to discuss such matters, I will happily refrain from introducing them."

"No," she answered, shaking her head and meeting his eyes again, "it's not that. It was unexpected, that's all. I actually think it would be better if we could talk openly about these things. That is," she added, "within the boundaries of what is appropriate."

Lucius nodded, but an amused smirk crawled onto his face. "That is adequately vague, Miss Granger. Will you please clarify for me what is appropriate?"

Her responding laugh was inspired by genuine amusement, but aided by nerves. "I don't know," she said, still chuckling.

"Well, would it be appropriate for me to ask you how many men there have been?"

She nodded slowly, mulling it over in her head. "Yes, that would be appropriate." She had the confidence to look him in the eye as she gave her reply, but it was in no way a boast. "Three."

He nodded his acceptance of her answer and casually took another sip of brandy.

She now felt comfortable enough to ask her own question, though she delivered it slowly, unsure how to put it together. "Have you... been with anyone... recently?"

"You mean since my wife?"

"Yes."

He shook his head. "No," he replied, placing his glass on the table next to his chair. He then leaned back and stretched his legs out before him, crossing them at the ankles, before folding his hands across his abdomen. He considered for a moment before explaining the reason. "It didn't seem important."

"Hmm," she offered in acknowledgement. She made the rest of her inquiries in a very direct manner, but cushioned them by speaking in a soft voice. "Was there anyone before her?"

He met her eyes again. "Yes. My father was rather old-fashioned. He took me to a brothel when I was seventeen to have my first woman. There was no one else until I got married."

"And while you were married?"

Eye contact had already been established between them, but now their gazes were rigidly locked on one another. This was perhaps as fearlessly honest as they had ever been with each other, and the significance of that was not lost on either of them. "Yes," he softly confessed, and there was a long interim of loaded silence before he continued. "Several. Narcissa and I..." he trailed off again. Hermione had never seen Lucius struggle with his words before, and it was rather refreshing. "Ours was a marriage of convenience," he tried to explain. "We were each expected by our families and peers to marry a fellow pureblood; indeed, neither of us would have considered anything else—at the time," he hastily amended, recalling to whom he was speaking.

"Mm-hmm," Hermione acknowledged sardonically, giving him a particularly stern look.

He chose to ignore this and moved on. "To be honest, we barely knew each other. Our parents arranged the match. There was no one else in whom I was interested and she came from a very noble family; I saw no reason to object."

"Go on," Hermione prodded.

"Considering how poorly we were acquainted, I assumed that it would be difficult and awkward at first. I expected it to get better. But it didn't." He sighed heavily then and adjusted his position in the chair, sinking even lower until he appeared almost casual. "I had not been particularly excited to marry her, but I had not minded it; I began to suspect that she minded it very much. No matter how I tried to engage her, she resisted. She offered only the necessary responses, and always upon my initiation." His eyes dimmed somewhat as he sank into recollection. "It was a cold house," he remembered solemnly. "Apart from our political leanings, we had nothing in common until Draco. And even he didn't bring us closer together. I spent as much time away as possible, allegedly in the service of the Dark Lord. Often times that was the case, but equally as often I was... elsewhere."

Hermione spent several moments absorbing this information, unsure of what to feel about it. Should she be outraged on behalf of Narcissa? Based on what he had told her, she could understand why he had done it, but still... Would he be unfaithful to her, too? She felt a little silly for caring, seeing as theirs would be no more a marriage of love than his previous one. Nonetheless, she felt a pang of jealousy in her chest (however impractical) at the thought of Lucius continuing such behavior. The brandy had loosened her tongue. She asked him outright: "Do you intend to be unfaithful to me, as well?"

"No!" he responded, brows slightly furrowed. Then he seemed to realize how absurd it was of him to take offense, and continued more softly. "Years of neglect drove me to infidelity with Narcissa. We've been engaged barely more than a month and already you've proven yourself a much more engaging companion. I have reason to believe that our marriage will be very... pleasant."

He locked eyes with her at the end of the sentence, and while he did not say it with any perceptible note of innuendo and his gaze did not betray any impure thoughts, something about the way the word sounded in his mouth—the graceful fall of the _p_ and the _l_, the smooth glide of the _s_, the rumbling hum of the _n_, and the soft click that his tongue made behind his teeth on the _t—_sent a warm shiver up the back of Hermione's neck. Her pulse quickened, her heart in her throat, but she merely nodded and said, "Mm-hmm," and took another sip of her drink, her eyes landing anywhere but on him.

"Would you like there to be a clause in our marriage contract permitting lovers?" he suddenly asked. "I would allow you that freedom, if you desired it."

"No," she immediately and adamantly replied, coughing delicately on the too-large swallow of brandy. She recovered quickly and continued, "I would only consider that kind of arrangement if you and I absolutely couldn't stand one another."

He chuckled then; it was the first time Hermione had ever seen him smile in a way that actually reached his eyes, which were twinkling and creased at the outer corners. "I am glad that that is not the case," he declared.

"So am I," she said. Then her mouth, aided considerably by alcohol, ran away with her again. "Mister Malfoy, I'm afraid I must confess: I am having considerable trouble reconciling this new you with the old one."

He chuckled again, but just one brief exhalation, not quite a laugh. "I believe that the most effective way to break a bad habit and create a good one is to consciously behave in the way one wants to become. It may feel awkward and insincere at the start, but over time you get used to it, and it begins to feel natural."

"And which habit, exactly, are you trying to change?"

"There are many, Miss Granger, far too many to list. But I suppose the easiest, broadest answer would be: I just don't want to be a _swine_ anymore."

At this, Hermione laughed outright, thoroughly entertained by Lucius Malfoy referring to himself in such a derogatory manner. When she was through, she studied him for a moment and granted him an utterly suspicious sidelong glance, though she was still smiling.

He returned her expression with his own amused smirk. "You distrust me," he observed.

"Yes," she replied, her expression unchanged.

He merely shrugged, still smirking. "I can't say I blame you."


	14. Hair of the Dog

**Author's note: Here's a rare treat – a scene from Lucius' point of view! Well, from Severus', technically. Yeah good old Sevvy's alive. I never stick to canon on that front. He's too awesome to be dead. ANYWAY… We get to see Lucius behaving like a human, #wow! Read and review, pretty pretty please! –Serena-**

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><p>They fell back into a comfortable silence, each acclimating themselves with the other's presence and general proximity while feeling no burden of conversation. About half an hour later, Hermione began to feel the effects of four hours' work and a glass of brandy. Her limbs felt warm and heavy and her eyelids began to droop. "I'm beat," she said.<p>

"Perhaps you should go to bed," he suggested.

She nodded sleepily. "I think I will," she said, and sat her glass down on the table between their two chairs and began to stand.

"I'll walk you up," he offered, and she was too tired to bother with the whole "You don't have to," "I insist" conversation, so she let him.

The journey upstairs was a great deal less energetic than their first; Hermione moved slowly and heavily in her fatigue and Lucius gallantly matched her pace. When they reached her door, Hermione turned and said, "Goodnight, Mister Malfoy," granting him a small smile though she was so tired that her eyes were in danger of falling completely closed.

"Goodnight, Miss Granger," he answered, then quite suddenly leaned in and pecked her neatly on the cheek. Just as quickly, he backed away.

It took Hermione aback; his face had never been that close to hers before, ever, and it was a rather odd move for someone who was always so, for lack of a better word, smooth. The surprise combined with the sluggishness of her mind made it so she could think of nothing to say and merely stood there staring at him, eyebrows slightly raised.

He looked a little surprised, himself, actually; she thought his eyes were just a little wider than usual. Before she could decide, he turned on his heel and strode away from her, disappearing down the hall.

She remained in that spot for several moments, unable to force the gears of her mind to turn, before finally giving up and retreating into her room. As the door clicked shut behind her, she clumsily peeled off her jeans and collapsed onto the bed, only summoning the energy to crawl under the covers when she got cold some minutes later. She got through roughly one-third of a thought about Lucius' peculiar goodnight before she slipped into unconsciousness.

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><p>It was well after midnight when Severus Snape received an urgent owl from Lucius Malfoy. It read:<p>

_I need to talk to you. Come over __now__._

Severus knew within the first three words that something was amiss; Lucius' normal way of speaking and writing was much more formal. A sloppy, uneven scrawl had also replaced his usually elegant penmanship, and the word "now" was underlined three times. Trusting that his friend's life was likely not in immediate danger, Severus unhurriedly fastened his robes and turned off all the lights in his house before Disapparating, wondering what could possibly be so important at such a late hour and feeling quite certain that he would much rather not be involved in whatever it was.

The doors of Malfoy Manor recognized him and obligingly swung open as he approached; he was "on the list," one could say. He followed the sound of glass clinking and several thuds of unknown objects meeting hard wood in the direction of the study, and as he neared he also heard Lucius grumbling angrily to himself. Smirking, he strode in to find his friend wrestling with something in his home bar. Lucius took no notice of him, so he made his presence known with a firm, "Ahem."

Lucius swung around, looking a touch unsteady on his feet, and fuzzily met his gaze. "Took you bloody long enough," he said. In one hand he held a half-empty bottle of expensive Scotch; in the other, the cork.

Severus grasped the situation immediately and attempted to politely intervene. "I think you've had enough," he mildly observed.

"You are wrong," Lucius said, turning his back once again and refilling his glass. "I am not nearly drunk enough to cope with what just happened."

"What just happened?" Severus asked, concern only just beginning to seep in.

Lucius sighed heavily, popped the cork back in the bottle with a soft squeak, and turned to face his former brother-in-arms. "We had a perfectly lovely chat," he began with the bitter tones of one who has experienced the complete ruination of something previously pleasant. "Honest, straightforward, even intimate. We discussed our sexual histories, for god's sake! Mine was in a bit more detail, but nonetheless—"

"Well, I would imagine yours is a great deal more extensive, is it not?" Severus interrupted sardonically with a twisty, one-cornered smile.

Lucius, however intoxicated, picked up on the satirical nature of the comment, and straightened his spine. "Are you calling me a rake?" he asked, affronted.

"Unless you're referring to the gardening tool, I must admit a fair bit of confusion," the Potions master said, "because I was not aware that we were in the seventeenth century, when that word was last used." His smile was now very obviously one of amusement. "I'm calling you a slut."

"Shut up, Severus," Lucius said impatiently, waving him off with one hand. "No one likes a clever bastard. _Anyway_," he continued, pointedly bringing the conversation back on topic, "she said she was tired so I saw her to her room, we said goodnight, and then I—" He had quite suddenly broken off his speech and was now staring into space with a distressed, almost haunted, expression. He recklessly tossed back a large portion of Scotch, swallowing audibly, and said, "I kissed her on the cheek."

Severus narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, eyeing his friend in apparent befuddlement. "That's..." he began, unsure of what it was, exactly, and finally ended with, "...an interesting choice."

"I've never heard you so polite," Lucius sarcastically observed.

"You're right," Severus acknowledged, and immediately corrected himself. "That was stupid."

"I should have just kissed her on the hand again, like I've been doing," the elder Malfoy lamented. "I should have—"

"You should have ravished her on the spot," Severus told him.

"Oh, like you would know," Lucius bitterly threw at him, draining the last remaining dregs in his glass. Severus only laughed, taking the ribbing in good grace.

As Lucius picked up the bottle to refill his glass for the third or thirteenth time, Severus quickly crossed the room and neatly slipped it from his grasp. "You're overreacting, Lucius."

"Oh, but it was awkward," he said, pacing three short steps in either direction and cradling his forehead in his hand. "She thought it was awkward. I know she did."

"You probably just surprised her," Severus tried to assure him.

"She makes me so... _silly_!" Lucius said. He made a grab for the bottle, but Severus deftly withdrew it from his reach. "Like a giddy schoolboy with a crush. I wanted to do something suave and charming, but part of me also wanted to throw her on the floor and give her a very nasty rug burn, and my brain just—" here he gestured wildly with his free hand and his face screwed up into a comically frustrated expression "—short-circuited, and I ended up kissing her on the bloody, sodding cheek!"

The situation was dire, indeed, but Severus had not yet given up on diffusing his friend's panic. "I'm sure she thought it was very..." he began; but again, he knew not what it was, and so he trailed off.

"What?" Lucius challenged, turning all his attention on his oldest friend and even taking a step in his direction. "Very what, Severus? _Cute_?"

Severus could only grimace in pained sympathy as a response. He made no attempt to fight as Lucius took back the Scotch.

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><p>When she awoke, she felt very well rested. She didn't think she'd ever slept in a more comfortable bed, which was all the more impressive for it obviously being an antique. Sunlight flooded the room through the large window, for the moment unimpeded by curtains, and Hermione enjoyed the first few minutes of her morning in her lovely, warm bed.<p>

She snapped to attention, however, when she suddenly remembered Lucius' odd behavior from the night before. Still pulling herself from the thick fog of sleep, she wondered for a moment if it had been a dream; but the memory carried no hint of the weird or nonsensical, the way her dreams normally did. He had, in fact, kissed her on the cheek, then—with no trace whatsoever of his usual debonair manner—and promptly made himself scarce.

Had he been embarrassed, she wondered? It hadn't appeared as though he meant to do it. All of his motions and mannerisms were measured, deliberate; but when he kissed her, he had leaned in rather suddenly, almost jerking towards her, and the kiss itself had barely lasted a tenth of a second. Then, afterwards, he had given her that odd look—surprised, flustered?—and immediately left.

She should have played it off, she now realized with some chagrin; she should have made it seem like she thought nothing of it, like it was a perfectly normal thing to do. Instead she had frozen and gaped at him like he was some sort of zoo animal, and now all the ease and familiarity they had built up was surely ruined.

_Well,_ she said to herself with no small measure of confidence, _not necessarily._ She would make it seem normal now, she decided, getting out of bed and walking to her suitcase, which she had yet to unpack. She unzipped it and thrust her arm in up to her armpit, groping for her clothes. She came away with a dark pair of jeans and a green sweater—the same one she had worn on her birthday. Touching herself up with a few beauty charms she had picked up over the years (a waterless shower, basically), she slipped into a pair of brown flats and decided what she would do when she encountered Mister Malfoy: she would confidently walk up to him, smiling, say, "Good morning," and kiss _him_ on the cheek. He had set the standard, as it were—albeit unintentionally—and she would meet it.

As she descended the stairs to the first floor, the smell of breakfast wafted up to her and her stomach obediently grumbled. She definitely smelled bacon, she thought, and eggs—and coffee! Her step lightened with pleasure at the scent, and she wandered into the breakfast room (yes, Malfoy Manor had a room specifically for breakfast).

He was seated at the head of the table, naturally, with his back to her, facing the large window, which afforded a spectacular view of the gardens and the hills beyond. She resolutely walked up to his left side and said, "Good morni—oh!"

She was brought up short before she could kiss him by the mere sight of him; his skin was sallow and pale and he had horrible dark circles under his eyes, which squinted against the morning light underneath brows furrowed in obvious and acute discomfort.

She looked on him with surprise and concern. "You look awful!"

"Not half as awful as I feel," he assured her in a tired, gravelly voice.

"Are you all right?" she asked, sitting down next to him and studying his face for signs of an imminent worsening of his condition—fainting, vomiting, or something of the like.

"I will live," he said, reaching for his half-empty glass of water and sipping carefully. "Fern is making me something for it as we speak."

Hermione was about to ask what was wrong with him when the door to the kitchen opened and a tray entered the room—it was, of course, being carried, but Fern was so small that Hermione could not see her over the table. A small, brownish hand slid the tray onto the table and Fern's head bobbed back into the kitchen, presumably to continue cooking.

When Lucius lifted the coffee pot from the tray, Hermione saw what was behind it. "Is that a Bloody Mary?"

"Mmph," he said, pouring them each a cup.

"You're hung over?" she asked incredulously.

"Mm-hmm." He slid the cream and sugar over to her without taking any for himself, and then proceeded to ignore his coffee and gulped down about one-fourth of his remedy.

Hermione set about making her coffee suitable to drink, being careful not to clink her spoon too loudly against the cup, and watched Lucius. He looked positively dreadful. "You didn't seem drunk when I left you," she observed.

"I didn't stop drinking," he ruefully informed her. "Believe me, I wish I had." Then, in a move quite uncharacteristic of him, he folded his arms on the table and laid down his head, his long, white-blond hair falling over his shoulder.

"Do you, um... do this often?" she carefully inquired. Quite simply, she wanted to know if she was marrying a raging alcoholic.

"No," he answered, his voice muffled by his arms. After a moment, he moaned in obvious pain.

Hermione clicked her tongue once and, without thinking, reached over and began gently petting the back of his head. Despite her uptight, goody two-shoes reputation, she had been where he now was, and she sympathized with him heavily. "Aren't there potions for hangovers?" she asked.

"There are," he said, and then turned his head towards her so that he could speak unhindered by his robes. His eyes remained closed, blocking out the light. "I've tried them all. None of them works so well as a Bloody Mary."

"Hair of the dog that bit you?" she said with a smile, still stroking his hair.

"Mm-hmm," he answered, and fell silent, allowing himself to be soothed by her soft caresses.

A few moments later, Fern reentered carrying another tray that looked much too large for such a small thing to carry, but she somehow managed it with ease. She set in front of each of them a plate of eggs, bacon, and strawberries, and Hermione said, "Thank you, Fern."

The elf froze, her big, round eyes fixed on her new mistress in mild disbelief. "Y-you're welcome," she finally responded uncertainly, and scampered back into the kitchen.

Lucius neglected to raise his head from the table and it appeared he had no interest in the food. "You should eat," Hermione told him, "but skip the coffee. The caffeine will only dehydrate you even more."

"I will never eat again," he vowed, thoroughly morose in his misery.

"Just a few bites," she coaxed, gently pushing against his arm, "and the rest of your Bloody Mary. Then it's back to bed with you."

He remained stubbornly still and silent, his breathing the only sound he made.

"If you think I'm above pretending your fork is an airplane," she warned, "you are gravely mistaken."

He opened one eye and looked at her, clearly trying to decide whether he thought she'd actually do it.

She did not back down. "Or would you prefer a train?"

He still only looked at her, challenging, and did not move.

Shaking her head in mock resignation, Hermione reached for his fork and piled eggs on top of it.

"Alright," he grudgingly conceded, straightening and reaching for the fork himself. He ate all of his eggs and downed most of his Bloody Mary, sat back with his eyes closed for a few minutes, then drank the rest.

Hermione was skimming the Daily Prophet, which she could tell he had no intention of reading this morning, and had a strawberry between her lips when she looked up and caught Lucius looking at her. "What?" she said, licking the fruit's juice off of her lips.

He minutely shook his head. "Nothing. I'm going back to bed." He rose from his chair with some difficulty.

"Take that glass of water with you," she told him. He obediently picked it up and retreated towards the stairs. "I'm going to eat your bacon," she called after him, and took it from his plate without waiting for his permission.

While Lucius recovered, Hermione explored the house. It had three levels (five, if one included the cellar and the attic), an exorbitant number of guest rooms (twelve, including hers), three separate rooms for taking meals (the breakfast room, the formal dining room, and an informal one Hermione had not seen before), a large drawing room and two smaller ones (in one of which she and Lucius had had tea), the study, the front hall/ballroom, and Lucius' and Draco's rooms, as well as several bathrooms. She had intentionally avoided Lucius' room in order to let him sleep off his hangover in peace, but had come across Draco's room quite by accident, assuming it to be one of the guestrooms. She recognized it as his immediately, though, as soon as she stepped inside. It was covered in Slytherin paraphernalia and smelled ever so slightly of _boy_. Hermione wrinkled her nose and promptly exited, having no desire to spend even the smallest amount of time in the room where Draco had spent so much of his time doing god only knew what.

She then made a quick trip to Diagon Alley and bought sheer white curtains for her window, two porcelain lamps, three silver picture frames, and two paintings—one of a girl sitting in a field of yellow flowers and one of a large stone fountain. She transfigured all of these things to be small enough to fit inside her purse and went back to the manor to finish her room.

Hanging the curtains made a surprisingly big difference in completing the room, as did the lamps and the paintings. Hermione took a moment to stand back and admire it, very pleased with herself. She then put a photograph of her, Harry, and Ron in their first year at Hogwarts in one frame, one of her parents in the second, and found that she wasn't sure what to put in the third. She put it in the drawer of her nightstand for the time being and began unpacking her suitcase.

She was almost finished when a soft knock sounded on her open door. She turned to see Lucius standing there, studying her handiwork with no discernible expression.

"Hi," she said, tossing the stack of sweaters she had been holding onto her bed and walking towards him. "You look much better," she observed. "How do you feel?"

He nodded once. "Better."

He was still looking around her room, so she turned around to see what he was seeing. "What do you think?" she proudly asked, but he didn't answer, so she turned back around to face him. "I realize it's a little..."

"Pink," he finished for her.

"You don't like it?" she asked, a little disappointed.

"It's lovely," he assured her. "I just didn't realize it would be so... pink."

She furrowed her brows. "It's only the comforter," she argued.

"Yes," he acknowledged, "but it's so..."

"Pink, I know," she finished for him, somewhat bitterly. She then looked around at her room, thinking of a suitable compromise, and began waving her wand. The walls were now lavender instead of beige, the comforter was white, and the sheets were silver.

Lucius gave a small exhale of relief and nodded his approval. "That's much better," he said. "The paintings, in particular, are very well-chosen."

"Thank you," Hermione said somewhat sarcastically, but he chose to ignore her tone. She didn't mind; the fact that he heard it was enough.


	15. Antagonizing Draco

**Author's note: HELLO, my lovelies! I'm so terribly sorry for my absence; I hope you're still with me! I offer my explanation in three words: "surprise pregnancy" and "parenthood!" Even through all of that, this story has never left my mind. I promise I will continue it with as much dedication as I can spare. PLEASE REVIEW! –Serena-  
><strong>

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><p>"Are you hungry?" Hermione asked, recalling herself to concern for Lucius' hangover now that the matter of her bedroom's décor was settled.<p>

He nodded once. "Famished, actually."

"Why don't we have some supper?"

He nodded again. "I've already told Fern to begin. On Wednesdays she prepares a salad."

"Nonsense," Hermione said, furrowing her brow. "That's not proper hangover food at all. You need protein and carbohydrates. Preferably something greasy."

Lucius' lip curled in distaste. "Greasy?" he repeated.

She nodded, undeterred by his obvious disapproval. "Yes. The grease dilutes the alcohol in your system. Judging by the sight of you this morning, the amount you drank last night won't have completely metabolized quite yet."

"Don't talk about alcohol," Lucius requested, turning rather pale.

Hermione cast him a sympathetic look and started for the door, saying, "I'll tell Fern to skip the salad and make some bangers and mash." She touched him on the arm as she passed.

Electing to put her own spin on the mashed potatoes, Hermione joined Fern in the kitchen while Lucius waited in the dining room with yet another glass of water. The elf was so startled by her mistress' presence in the kitchen that she dropped the bowl she had been carrying, shattering it and spilling lettuce all over the floor. Hermione repaired the bowl and cleaned up the mess with a wave of her wand, and kindly asked Fern to allow her to help with the preparation of the meal. Still quite discombobulated, Fern stammered something unintelligible and wringed her hands for close to a minute before finally nodding and starting to fry the sausage.

Pausing only to ask Fern where she could find the ingredients she needed, Hermione went about making a delicious version of mashed potatoes she was quite sure Lucius had never tasted, or even heard of, before. It was not remotely an English recipe. She added grated cheddar cheese, a large spoonful of sour cream, bits of bacon and some chives, and mixed it all together until the texture was uniform. She noticed Fern looking over at her as she did so, and tried very hard not to laugh at the elf's expression, which was a comical combination of fascination and suspicion.

Deciding that she had perturbed Fern enough for one day, Hermione left the kitchen to join Lucius at the table, allowing her to serve them. When the plates had been set before them, Lucius' eyes landed on the potatoes and remained fixed there for several moments. After failing to understand them, he asked, "What on earth is wrong with the mash?"

"Nothing's wrong with it," Hermione answered guilelessly. "I added some things to it."

The suspicion on Lucius' face was enough to rival Fern's. "What things?"

"Taste it and I'll tell you."

Leaning away from his plate with a look of utter mistrust, he said, "Perhaps it is not so vital that I know, after all."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's quite popular to eat mash this way in America."

"That is not exactly a favorable recommendation," he retorted. Then, with genuine curiosity, "Have you been to America?"

"No," she answered stiffly, clearly hoping to leave it at that. But when he refused to pick up his fork and continued staring at her, unblinking, she realized his stubbornness would outperform hers – this time, anyway. Sighing in exasperation, she explained: "I learned it from an American exchange student. He completed his work study at my parents' dental practice."

"_He_," Lucius repeated with a smirk that failed to reach his eyes. "I begin to see why you wished to avoid discussing it."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him challengingly.

"Was this dental student a beau of yours?"

Her jaw tightened. "Perhaps," she answered primly.

"One of your three, I presume?"

Hermione's eyes widened at the baldness with which he had asked the indelicate question, and her cheeks became violently red. "That is none of your business!" she shrilly admonished him.

"Is it not?" he asked, though his tone made it clear that it was not so much a question. He was confident in how she must reply.

Her lips pressed together. "Your food is getting cold."

"Answer my questions and I'll eat."

Hermione leaned back in her chair and rolled her eyes. "Yes!" she admitted. "His name was Jeremy. My parents set us up. We dated for four months, give or take. When he went back to America, we both said we'd keep in touch, but neither of us did. It was nothing spectacular. He was a perfectly nice young man, but rather dull."

"In bed or out of it?" he asked, teasing.

Her mouth opened in further surprise at his brass, but she quickly snapped it shut. Knowing he would press her until she answered, she didn't try to forestall him. She tried not to smile as she responded, and failed. "He was better than Ron, but that's hardly a glowing endorsement."

Lucius laughed appreciatively at that, causing Hermione's blush to deepen.

Equal parts amused and embarrassed, she turned her attention to her plate and muttered, "Eat your food," just loud enough for him to hear.

After their meal, they retired once again to the study, though tonight his usual nightcap was conspicuously absent. Hermione suspected it would take him a few more days to work up the courage to resume his routine. Still, they enjoyed the friendly crackle of the fire, and the atmosphere in the room was very relaxed. She suspected they would accomplish much of their getting acquainted in the study after dinner, as for some reason they both seemed much more comfortable with one another in this room and at this hour than any other. It didn't bother Hermione; she would use whatever tools she had at her disposal to build intimacy between them.

_Intimacy_. Yes, there was that, as well. Hermione blanched at the thought – not because she was repulsed by him, as she certainly wasn't. Lucius Malfoy was a very attractive man. Tall and lean, broad-shouldered, that devilishly charming smile, those intense blue eyes… Sometimes she felt he could burn a hole right through her with those eyes. He had been polite and courteous, to be sure, but underneath his impeccable manners Hermione sensed a kind of roguishness about him. No, Hermione freely acknowledged to herself that she had nothing to complain about with regard to her future husband's allure. What made her so nervous about the thought of consummating their relationship was… Well, quite frankly, he intimidated her. He was a great deal more experienced than she, for one; and for another, Hermione did not think of herself as _sexy_. She had been pursued by exactly three people before the law was passed: Viktor Krum, with whom she had never gotten past first base; Cormac McLaggen, who would likely have shagged any girl between sixteen and sixty; and Ron Weasley. She did not count her American beau, as they had been set up, and she disregarded any suitors the Preservation of Magic Act had brought about simply due to its coercive nature. If a wizard _had_ to select a witch of half-blood or less, Hermione was sensible to the fact that she was a fair choice. Her war hero status made her somewhat of a catch. But while she believed herself to be reasonably pretty, she did not think she possessed that intangible quality that made men metaphorically wet their shirtfronts from salivating.

To sum it up, she had no idea why Lucius had chosen her above all her peers, and she feared she would disappoint him.

"Miss Granger, you are being very quiet," he interrupted her reverie. "What occupies your thoughts?"

_Funny you should ask, Mister Malfoy._

"_Father!"_ a voice bellowed from the foyer.

"Oh, god," Hermione moaned, dropping her forehead in her hands.

"I'll handle this," Lucius offered as he rose from his chair, obviously looking forward to the coming exchange as much as she was.

Hermione said nothing, but stood up to join him. She was not in the habit of hiding like a coward while others fought her battles for her. They walked together from the study and within seconds had come across Draco in the front hall.

"Ah, here they are, the happy couple," Draco bitterly spat.

"What can I do for you, Draco?" Lucius drawled, affecting extreme boredom.

"You can explain to me what the bloody hell is going on here!" his son angrily responded.

"Really? We're going to do this?" Hermione asked.

"What do you think is going on here?" Lucius asked.

"Alright, I guess we are," Hermione muttered resignedly.

"_She moved into the manor_?" Draco demanded incredulously.

"People often cohabitate before marriage," Lucius said, not without some measure of haughty amusement. "It's not exactly traditional, I admit—"

"Marriage?" Draco interrupted rudely. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Lucius' eyes narrowed at his son. "Your grades in school never marked you as a genius, Draco, but surely your faculties will allow you to recall Miss Granger's last birthday?" His conversational tone was not nearly enough to camouflage the caustic attitude to which he treated the younger man.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I recall it, but I didn't think you'd go _through_ with it!"

"And why not?" Hermione asked, ready to be intentionally or unintentionally insulted.

"Look, Granger," Draco began, acknowledging her for the first time since he'd entered the house. "You're in way over your head with this one," he said, gesturing towards Lucius "I've seen him go through dozens of women, each more meaningless than the last. And as for _you_," he continued, addressing his father, "what in the name of Merlin's wrinkled arse are you about, chasing a bit of skirt who's not half your age? It's pathetic!"

"You're one to talk about undervaluing women," Hermione accused him, her face darkening in anger. "Your father has been a perfect gentleman to me, which is loads more than I can say for you, you—you—"

"My father could be _your_ father, Granger," Draco uselessly pointed out.

"Well, thank heavens he isn't, or else our planned activities some six months from now would be _wildly_ inappropriate!" she retorted.

Draco's face twisted into a comical expression of disgust. "Don't put that image in my head! Ugh!"

"Oh, does it displease you?" she asked conversationally. "I rather enjoy it."

She said it specifically to perturb him, and it hit the mark. His eyes widened in surprise as his normally pale face blanched even further, and Lucius quietly coughed beside her, disguising a chuckle. It turned out to be rather fun, antagonizing Draco.

"This entire thing is _preposterous_!" the younger Malfoy asserted, shaking with frustration. "I had her picked out months ago, and you just swoop in at the last minute and—"

"Look here, Lusty McGrabass!" Hermione shouted, having finally lost her patience. "Despite what your admittedly questionable parenting has taught you," she began, casting an irritated look at Lucius, "pouting and whining and stamping your pampered feet will _not_ get you your way!"

Draco sneered unattractively, hesitated a moment, then leaned slightly in their direction and said, "I am not happy with this," as though it mattered.

Hermione gasped dramatically. "He's unhappy!" she exclaimed, as though she had only just understood the circumstances. "He's unhappy!" she repeated directly to Lucius, whose amusement was threatening to burst forth most improperly. "Well, that settles it, doesn't it? We'll just have to pop over to the Ministry and break our contract. A year in Azkaban seems an appropriate price to pay for making Draco _unhappy_, don't you think?"

"Listen," Draco growled menacingly, "you swotty little Mudblood—"

"Be careful, Draco," Lucius interrupted, the threat implicit in his voice despite its coolness. The corner of his mouth twitched as he said, "You are speaking to my future wife."

Hermione could tell simply by his minuscule smirk that he had said it with the express intention of annoying Draco, and now it was she who had to bow her head to avoid exposing how badly she wanted to laugh.

Recognizing defeat – at least for the present – Draco threw his hands up in the air with an exasperated shout and stormed from the manor, slamming the doors most huffily behind him.

Lucius and Hermione carefully glanced at one another, found themselves in danger of bursting into laughter, and quickly looked away. "That shouldn't have been so much fun," Hermione said.

"Take your pleasure where you find it, Miss Granger," Lucius advised.

* * *

><p>They returned to the study after Draco left and had another pleasant conversation, though less intimate or suggestive than that of the night before. As the fire died down, Lucius offered to escort Hermione to her room. They ascended the stairs in silence, the air of familiarity stubbornly remaining behind in the study. When they reached her door, Hermione turned to face him.<p>

"Goodnight, Mister Malfoy," she said with a smile.

"Goodnight, Miss Granger," he replied with a slight bow of his head. Then he turned and walked away from her.

Hermione felt a sense of anxiety she couldn't explain – _Stop him!_ she said to herself. He had gotten four steps away, five, six – "Wait," she called after him.

He halted and turned on his heel but remained where he was, looking at her attentively.

"Aren't you…" Hermione trailed off, suddenly self-conscious, and began fidgeting nervously with her fingers. She forced herself to spit it out. "Aren't you going to kiss me goodnight?" There she was, out on a high, high limb.

Lucius didn't react immediately; he appeared to be unsure if he had heard her correctly. But then he blinked once, took a step, and another, and another, until he was within twelve inches of her. Their eyes momentarily locked, and then he slowly leaned in, bringing his lips to her cheek, where they lingered. She felt the warmth of his breath in her ear. She felt the heat of his lips on her face. Goosebumps tingled down her neck, and then he pulled away.

She met his eyes again, but something in his gaze daunted her, so she looked away just long enough to break the spell. "Goodnight," she said again, with another smile.

"Goodnight," he softly replied.


End file.
